


For what advancement may I hope

by Ophelia_j



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Lonely Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, anyway, bless him, or trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_j/pseuds/Ophelia_j
Summary: Anthea tries to interest Mycroft in a life beyond his work. It goes simultaneously better and worse than she could have hoped.





	1. Chapter 1

Anthea’s job had many perks; power being the main one. As Executive Assistant to Mycroft Holmes she wielded significant power of her own, and when in possession of Mycroft’s signature, the power of the entire British Establishment. Not that she needed Mycroft’s permission to go about her daily work. Five years at his side had given her a great deal of autonomy in her day to day work, not least because people – even those technically her superiors - were generally more afraid of getting on her bad side than his. Mycroft had been known to forgive, if never forget, but Anthea’s tolerance was severely limited on his behalf, and people who abused it lost access to the ultimate power in British political life, until such time as they were, in Anthea’s eyes, sufficiently abject. 

One perk the job didn’t have, and had never had, was predictable working hours. Whilst Mycroft worked, Anthea worked. And Mycroft worked enough for several people. Anthea had no objections. She had known what she was getting into from day one, and had wanted every minute of it. The competition for her job had been fierce, and she had been the best. Even now, that thought gave her a stab of satisfaction. And she had proven her worth in the years since. Even if she hadn’t been aware of that herself – and underestimating one’s own competency was an unintelligent way to approach life – she had had the immense pleasure of hearing Mycroft confirm it, on more than one occasion, the first being after an almost impossibly difficult foreign negotiation. 

Peace had been required to ensure British security and the establishment had sent their best. Mycroft had barely slept, been verbally abused, survived two assassination attempts, a kidnap attempt which had only been foiled by Anthea, and been pushed to the limits of his impressive reserves. On the plane home, their still fragile success behind them, Mycroft, barely able to move with exhaustion, had leaned across to her, taken her hand in his, and said with more emotion than she had heard from him in all their acquaintance, ‘I couldn’t have got through that without you, my dear. Thank you. For everything you do.’ He had squeezed her hand, released it, leaned back, and fallen almost instantly asleep. 

Anthea had stared at his sleeping form in astonishment for some moments. The emotion his sudden praise brought up she attributed to her own tiredness. She knew she was good, and didn’t need validation. All the same....it was unaccountably pleasant to hear it said. Watching him then, his aura of invulnerability fallen away in sleep, it occurred to her for the first time that it wasn’t just her job she liked: it was her boss. She had always respected him – how could she not? – but actually liking the reserved, seemingly cold Mycroft Holmes was an unexpected bonus. She was professional enough that not liking him would have made no difference to her performance at all, but genuine affection meant she could dispense with at least one layer of subterfuge for the sake of social niceties. 

Remembering that moment of revelation, Anthea stood, slightly leaning on the car, composing replies on her blackberry in the longstanding battle to keep Mycroft’s emails at the level one person could actually be expected to cope with, and watched her boss out of the corner of her eye. 

His arrival at the crime scene had been noted with irritation by his brother who was even now sweeping dramatically across the abandoned waste ground to express his disapproval. John Watson followed in his wake, looking marginally more welcoming, although that wasn’t a particularly high bar. Watson had never really forgiven Mycroft for his part in faking Sherlock’s death, and in the death of his wife. He had, conveniently, forgiven Sherlock, from what she could tell, and any lingering anger had transferred to Mycroft. Irritated at the thought, she ignored Watson’s wave in her direction by the simple expedient of pretending not to have seen it. It was petty, she knew, and beneath her, but as long as Watson held any enmity towards Mycroft, then he could rest assured of Anthea’s ongoing distain. 

Snatches of their conversation drifted over to her. ‘....not here just to perturb you’ ‘......aspects of the investigation’ ‘....unable to resist interfering’. She tuned them out with a mental sigh. The brothers Holmes always put on a good show, and if challenged would deny that it was a show. There was no doubt that much of the hostility between them had a basis in truth, but it was far less now than it had been before Sherlock’s ‘death’, and the subsequent events surrounding Eurus. 

She had watched her boss carry on as usual through all the affairs of state, obsessively ensuring that any observer would see no change in his work, his routine, as his brother dropped off the grid, disappearing for days on end. She had seen the thought take hold that maybe he would soon be mourning for real, only for Sherlock to reappear somewhere in the world, exhausted, desperate, and in need of help. Only the swiftly disguised relief in Mycroft’s face, and the speed of his response, betrayed his feelings for his brother. And then a final, frightening role of the dice. Mycroft himself had gone back into the field, unwilling to risk any other lives, or risk knowledge of Sherlock's existence leaking to anyone else. It was the only time in their relationship that she had refused to follow a direct order. The only time that Mycroft had ever shouted at her. Nevertheless, he had not gone alone. 

She rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s raised voice. It was like Mycroft’s affection for him was a personal affront. With a sigh that Anthea heard clearly even from her distance away, Sherlock turned and bawled back to the scene, ‘Lestrade!’ before stalking off without another word to Mycroft. To her surprise, John Watson didn’t immediately move after him. Intrigued, Anthea looked up. He was standing in front of Mycroft, still speaking. He had dropped his voice, so Anthea stared hard at his face, reading his lips instead. It took a few seconds, but she caught ‘...know you did it to protect us, and you kept Sherlock alive so....yeah, I just wanted...’ Her boss raised a hand, smoothly and quietly interrupting Watson’s awkward flow of words. 

Of course he would, she thought with sudden affection. From this angle she couldn’t see Mycroft’s face but whatever he said caused the tension in Watson’s shoulders to ease. She saw him check Mycroft’s expression, and reassured, venture a smile himself. Something else Mycroft said caused a snort of agreement and almost a laugh. She saw Mycroft clap Watson on the shoulder, to John’s obvious surprise and then incline his head towards the crime scene. As if on cue Sherlock’s voice bellowed ‘John!’

Watson turned and nodded a farewell to Mycroft. As he turned back to follow Sherlock, he caught Anthea’s eye, and she rewarded him with a wink, causing him to almost fall over his own feet. By the time Mycroft turned to see what had caused the disturbance, Anthea was studying her blackberry with an entirely neutral expression. Mycroft’s scrutiny of her was interrupted by the approach of the DI in charge of the scene. 

Anthea felt herself relax as Lestrade strode over, a reluctant smile on his face. He looked wary, as well one might, confronted by the personification of the British Establishment, but it wasn’t stopping him also looking pleased to see Mycroft. Anthea realised, with a sudden pang, how entirely rare that was. People never looked pleased to see Mycroft. They frequently pretended to be, but that never fooled her, or Mycroft himself. Lestrade, on the other hand, whilst looking wary of whatever message Mycroft had come to convey, was genuinely pleased to see the messenger. 

She watched as nearly invisible cues in Mycroft’s body language told her he too had read Lestrade’s welcome and was relaxing, albeit infinitesimally. Anthea felt her regard for the Scotland Yard Inspector increase. Being impressed by someone was a rare feeling for Anthea, and she let herself enjoy it, whilst moving unobtrusively closer. 

She faintly heard Mycroft’s murmured, ‘Good evening, Detective Inspector’, and smiled to herself as Lestrade responded, as he always did, ‘How many times, Mycroft, Greg is fine.’ Mycroft’s response, ‘Ah, of course. Gregory.’ 

Saw Lestrade’s amused flicker at the use of his full time. She would be prepared to bet a year’s salary that no one other than Mycroft called him Gregory. She would also be prepared to bet that he wouldn’t have tolerated it from anyone other than Mycroft. 

Heard Mycroft’s, ‘Please accept my apologies for interrupting your evening,’ even as Lestrade waved it away with a short, ‘It’s really fine. Good to see you, actually. It’s been a while.’ Even knowing Mycroft as well as she did, Anthea almost missed the surprised pleasure that widened his eyes fractionally at that moment, before the tiny tell disappeared as quickly as it had come. Anthea experienced the unheard-of sensation of having her opinion of someone improved twice in one day. 

Lestrade continued, ‘So how can I help?’ Almost unconsciously, they had fallen into step, walking away from Anthea and the car, so she didn’t hear Mycroft’s response, but then she didn’t need to. 

The victim of the murder Lestrade had been called to investigate had been a member of the security services. His background had been painstakingly constructed and they needed it to stay intact. Whilst finding the murderer was something they all wanted, the investigation could not be allowed to expose the victim’s background in any way. Other lives, as well as an ongoing operation, depended on it. 

Anthea watched as Mycroft explained, saw Lestrade nod, ask questions, listen to the replies, nod again. She was too far to lip read, and Lestrade’s back was to her, but despite the seriousness of the situation, she saw Mycroft’s lips quirk in a sure sign of amusement. Lestrade said something else and Mycroft looked suddenly, slightly uncomfortable, before relaxing, and nodding on a sigh. He just admitted something, what? Tiredness? He had been up for more than 36 hours. To her surprise, Lestrade, mid-reply, put a hand on Mycroft’s upper arm and squeezed, before giving a confirming nod, and walking back in the direction of the crime scene. 

Anthea was looking directly at her boss, waiting for him to walk back to the car, or she would have missed it. As Lestrade’s hand fell, and he walked away, the expression of polite friendliness on Mycroft’s face flickered, to be replaced by an expression so alien to his usually imperturbable features that Anthea struggled to read it. As he turned, his usual calm demeanour was entirely restored, and Anthea returned her gaze, unseeing, to her blackberry, typing out automatic replies even as she replayed the moment in her head. 

What had she just seen? She took a deep breath as Mycroft approached and raised her head, expression schooled into its usual neutrality. 

‘All done, sir?’ Of course he wasn’t fooled. He looked at her in surprise. 

‘Are you alright, my dear?’

‘I’m supposed to be on a date right now, you know, sir.’ 

It was the first thing that came to mind that he would possibly believe. It had the added benefit of truth.  
Mycroft took the bait immediately, as she had known he would, covering his amusement, and schooled his features into an expression of sympathy. 

'Ah, of course. Your new young man.’ 

This was an old game between them. Her complaining at the endless the toll the job took on her social life, and his entirely false contrition at keeping her at work. Her utterly unfeigned horror, early in their relationship, when he had attempted to convince her to keep to the hours her job description (woefully inadequate as that document was) demanded, had convinced him to allow her to extend those hours. These days, she simply worked when he worked, and only genuinely complained if he tried to keep her from his side at times when she felt she should be there. Which was almost all of the time. 

‘Yes,’ she confirmed as they climbed into the car. ‘Soon to become my ex new young man, if this keeps up.’ 

‘Young men of today,’ Mycroft tutted mildly, settling back in his seat. ‘Unable to take the pace.’

She glared at him from her seat opposite. ‘I’d like the chance to set some pace, sir.’ She was gratified to see some amusement beneath his tiredness. 

‘My apologies, my dear.’ He waved a hand. ‘As of now, consider yourself off duty. ‘

He thought for a moment, then said, ‘In fact, I won’t need you until the afternoon tomorrow. Take the morning off.’ 

Anthea blinked. This was not how this conversation went. Complain, fake sympathy, carry on as usual. The pattern was well established. She stared at Mycroft. 

‘Sir, you have a conference call with the Prime Minister of Egypt and his cabinet in the morning.’

He smiled at her. ‘Yes, and I know how to use the conference facilities in the office.’ 

She looked evenly at him. 

‘Or there are people there who can show me. I do have other staff.’ 

At her expression, he said, suddenly, ‘Anthea, you deserve a personal life. Time for yourself. We are not always serious about it, I know, but it could be beneficial to step away from work for while. Enjoy the company of those outside of the office.’ 

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Sir,’ she began, then stopped. They had always been so completely on the same page on this issue that she was momentarily floored. Life outside work was for other people. People who didn’t have jobs like theirs. Responsibilities like theirs. 

Into her silence, he said, ‘Take Sherlock, for example. There was someone utterly convinced that he never needed anyone in his life, myself included. Took the existence of others as a personal irritant, for the most part, and yet...’

‘Doctor Watson.’ 

Mycroft nodded. ‘And you can’t deny there has been, shall we say, an improvement in Sherlock since the good doctor’s arrival.’ 

She nodded. You really couldn’t dispute it. It would have been obvious from the moon. But.

‘Sir, I’m not sure you should be recommending anyone follow your brother’s example in how to conduct one’s personal life.’ 

This earned her a surprised snort of laughter and the atmosphere in the back of the car relaxed. ‘An excellent point.’ 

He looked at her, and failed to keep his smile entirely cheerful. ‘But I’m not sure anyone should follow my example either.’ 

Anthea felt, for the first time in a long time in her relationship with Mycroft, that the ground beneath her feet was unsteady. This was more personal than their discussions usually went, despite the hours spent in each other’s company. Still, she thought, in for a penny....

‘So you’ll be taking the rest of the evening off then, sir? You know, setting a good example for the staff?’ She arched an eyebrow at him. 

She watched him clamp down on his reflective dismissal of the notion. ‘Er. Yes. Yes, I will.’

With an air of studied casualness, she said ‘And what will you be doing, sir, with your evening off?’ 

She watched as he tried to remember what people did with an evening off. It was too late to pretend he had booked a show, or a restaurant. She’d never seen any entertainment device in his house, not even a television. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘I believe the expression is: Netflix and chill.’

Not even her years of training and diplomatic experience were enough. Anthea's burst of laughter filled the usually quiet car. 

‘I have, I collect, said something amusing. Is that not what people do with their evenings?’ Mycroft was trying to look offended, but his pleasure at having made her lose her composure was seeping through, softening the edges. 

Anthea took a deep breath. ‘Okay, sir, two things. Firstly, do you even own a television? Or a Netflix subscription? – I can get you one, of course, but you’ve never really shown any interest in keeping up with film or current TV shows, which is what it’s for. Secondly, and probably more relevantly here, when people say Netflix and chill, they don’t actually mean that they will be watching television. With their partner. Television may not feature at all, in fact.’

She stopped, waiting for the penny to drop. Mycroft sighed heavily. 

‘Ah. I see. So the lack of an entertainment subscription or a sexual partner is going to hamper me with my evening plans, is that what you’re saying?’ 

Anthea blinked. That was the only time in six years the word sex had crossed Mycroft’s lips. Even in referring to the regular dalliances of others in their working world, indiscretion was the closest he came. And Mycroft, for all that he was going along with her attempts to distract him, was still, unmistakeably, a little sad. Cards on the table, she thought. 

‘Sir, if I thought you were serious about taking an evening off occasionally, I would buy you a lifetime subscription to every streaming service available, right now. And I want you to believe me when I tell you that if I thought for one second you were interested, or that it wouldn’t damage our excellent working relationship, I would jump you right here.’

Anthea was treated to the very rare sight of Mycroft Holmes, utterly taken aback. But being Mycroft, he recovered quickly.

‘Well, that is extraordinarily flattering of you my dear, but I must concur with your reasoning as to why that would be...an unwise stratagem.’ 

‘With me, sir, yes, but there are other people. Lots of them, in fact.’ Dimly, Anthea was aware that they were so far off the conversational map the area was marked ‘here be dragons’. She hurried on. ‘You should...go out sometimes. Not for work. You’d have no trouble finding someone; I’ve seen you turn people down. ’

‘Are you seriously suggesting that I ....date?’ Mycroft’s tone of voice could not have been less welcoming if her idea had been drug dealing, or root canal work, or opening a crèche. ‘You must realise the absolute impossibility....’

‘You told me once sir, that nothing was impossible with the right motivation.’ 

‘How ambitious of me.’ Mycroft muttered, lips thinning. 

Anthea pressed on, ignoring the danger sign. ‘It would be difficult sir, given your work, but not impossible. In fact, I could-‘

‘Absolutely not.’ Mycroft’s voice was the one he used on hostile opposition, and so rarely directed at her that Anthea closed her mouth with a snap. 

Quickly, she returned her gaze to her blackberry and careful tapping filled the awkward silence. 

A few more minutes went by.

Eventually, Mycroft said. ‘Power.’ 

Anthea glanced up, but he was watching London slide by on the other side of the tinted, bullet proof glass. 

‘Sir?’

‘That’s why people...express an interest. Power. I have it. They want it. It is, so I’m told, an aphrodisiac.’ His lips quirked, a bitter half smile. ‘In that respect, you are correct. I would have no trouble finding someone willing to date my job.’ 

Anthea set her blackberry down. Carefully she said, ‘I know that’s true, sir, for some people. But not all. I think you might be selling yourself short.’ 

He looked at her then, surprised. ‘I think....’ he stopped and took a controlling breath. ‘Well. Thank you.’ 

She quirked a smile at him, lightening the mood. ‘As I said, I’d definitely date you. And power doesn’t impress me, I see it every day. I’d bet I’m not the only one.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ He was smiling again, humouring her now. 

‘And just for future reference, sir, if you ever were dressing to impress a date, I’d suggest the grey pinstripe with the burgundy silk lined waistcoat. That is a truly excellent fit, and-'

‘Yes,’ Mycroft interrupted her swiftly. ‘thank you, Anthea. This conversation is closed.’ 

Smiling, she went back to her emails as the car pulled up at the kerb. 

The following morning, Anthea arrived at her usual time and set up the intergovernmental call, to no comment from Mycroft. She wondered if he’d already dismissed their conversation of the evening before. She doubted a resumption of the subject would be welcome, as certainly tiredness had played a role in their confidences. However, she had turned the subject around in her mind, replaying their conversation, and comparing Mycroft of last night, to Mycroft of months ago, and Mycroft of their early acquaintance. She recalled observing his interactions with people over time. She had reached a number of conclusions. 

Firstly, his work was weighing more heavily on him than in the past. The reason for this was not entirely clear. She knew the work itself was only as difficult, as stressful as it had ever been. But the last few years in particular had had the added element of .....personal involvement. She and Mycroft had long pretended, for appearances' sake, that the involvement of Sherlock in any aspect of Mycroft's work made no difference to his actions, or the stress involved for Mycroft. In the last two years especially this had been so profoundly untrue even their mutually agreed fiction had given way to a grim determination to simply get through it. Perhaps prolonged exposure was wearing even Mycroft down. Secondly, he was lonely. This had come as something of a revelation, given that she wasn’t even sure Mycroft himself had known before last night. Loneliness, stress and overwork were not a good combination. Certainly not for someone whose job required such a high level of competency, all the time.

Solution then: downtime required. Ideally, in the form of a pleasurable social activity involving spending time with family, friends, or a significant other. So, family: Sherlock. Not helpful. Interaction with Sherlock increased Mycroft’s stress levels. Parents. Came into the category of people that Mycroft felt he had to protect by keeping them ignorant of his work. Required an act. Also stressful. And although Anthea was not privy to all of Mycroft's interactions with his parents, limited though those were, and despite her own efforts on this front, she had formed the distinct impression that there was still some lingering resentment from Mycroft's father regarding her boss's deception over the supposed death of his daughter. Friends then. Anthea had initially started that category as ‘people who might want to interact with Mycroft socially’. Unfortunately, she had rapidly been forced to agree with his assessment of the previous night. Many of those people were clearly mostly interested in Mycroft’s work. Off the list then. Reducing the list further to those people Mycroft might also wish to interact with socially had left her with three names. Well, it was a start. 

Significant other. More problematic. There wasn’t, and hadn’t been in all of Anthea’s time with Mycroft, another of any significance. Or at all. To the best of her knowledge, in all of their time together, Mycroft had slept with precisely three people. And all three of those liaisons fell into the category of, well, politically expedient. Sex for Mycroft, it appeared, was simply another tool in his impressive arsenal of weapons to manipulate people. But only to be used very sparingly, carrying as it did the risk of unnecessary vulnerability. And only with those who could at least pass for equals in the extremely rarefied intellectual and political sphere that Mycroft inhabited. The idea of dating had been rejected, so...what? She looked again at the friends list. Married. Married. Divorced. Hmm. Divorced. And liked Mycroft. And Mycroft? Well, certainly last night had been....something. That was a promising enough start, Anthea thought. What they needed was an opportunity to spend more time together. Anthea moved the final name from the friends list onto the Potential Significant Other list, and called up all the information she had on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade looked across his desk to where Sally Donovan was examining remnants of lunchtime’s takeout for anything potentially edible. Not that he blamed her; he’d eat a mangy dog himself right now. Running his fingers through his hair, he sighed. Enough was enough.

‘Donovan.’ She withdrew a guilty hand that had been reaching for the last prawn cracker. ‘Go home.’

‘Sir?’ She looked at him hopefully.

‘We’re not going to get this done. We’ve been at it most of last night and all day. We deserve a break, and I’ll just face the music tomorrow.’

Her face split into a grin. ‘You’re a Prince amongst men, sir.’

‘Remember that for my next 360 appraisal. Now sod off.’

She was out of the room before he could draw breath to remind her to log her updated report before leaving, so he settled for shouting it after her departing wave.

Grunting, he settled back in his chair, mentally composing excuses for the lack of a comprehensive report on last night’s stabbing. Lack of manpower, reluctant witnesses, bloody appalling weather ruining the outside scene, and Sherlock having disappeared off the face of the earth without contributing anything helpful. Great, he was going to have to go to Baker Street on his way home, like this day hadn’t been long enough-

‘Good evening, Lestrade.’ Greg shot out of his chair at the sound of Superintendant Whitchurch’s voice. The man moved like a bloody cat.

‘Er...good evening sir.’ Lestrade swept the takeout remnants into the bin with only a slight pang.

Whitchurch strolled into his office, looking, as always, immaculate and unworried. Greg wondered if the hehad found a way to delegate long hours and stress. Perhaps he should start considering promotion if this is what it did for a bloke. _Yeah_ , a voice in his head supplied, _or maybe he’s just a useless, supercilious tosser._

‘Can I help you with something, sir?’ Lestrade said, extra politely, in case his thoughts showed in his tone.

Whitchurch smiled thinly, as if this was the question he’d been waiting for. ‘You can, actually, Lestrade.’

 _Oh joy_ , Greg thought.  
  
Whitchurch went to sit down, glanced at the chair, and thought better of it. ‘There’s a function tonight at The Landmark. Political thing, you know. Co-operation between the security services and government, everyone being seen to socialise together nicely. Deathly dull, but I need you to attend to represent our division here at the Yard.’  
  
Greg stared, his well deserved quiet evening at home dissolving like mist before his eyes. ‘Sorry, sir, attend as what? Security?’  
  
Whitchurch looked at him levelly. ‘No, Detective Inspector. As a guest. To socialise. Be the friendly face of the homicide division.’  
  
_He’s gutted about this_ , Greg realised with a flash of surprise. _He really wanted to go._  
  
‘Sir,’ Greg said in his most appealing tone. ‘I appreciate the thought, but surely this is more your area. In terms of seniority, experience, diplomatic approach....’ He experienced a moment of profound relief that Donovan had left. She’d be vomiting into the waste basket right about now.  
  
Whitchurch looked slightly mollified. ‘I had been invited, obviously, unfortunately personal circumstances...the wife....’ He trailed off, then added, with a confidential look to Lestrade. ‘Women.’  
  
_Oh god, please don’t let this turn into one of those conversations_ , Lestrade thought. One divorce, and suddenly you’re everyone’s go-to guy for sympathy against the evil fairer sex. Greg hoped his face betrayed the right balance of sympathy and utter disinterest.  
  
Seeming to pick up on Lestrade’s unspoken thoughts, Whitchurch reached into his inside pocket and threw an exquisitely embossed invitation on Lestrade’s desk.  
  
‘Don’t be late, Inspector.’ He turned to leave.

‘Oh, and Lestrade?’ Whitchurch called back over his shoulder. ‘Do get changed.’  
  
Greg fought the urge to flip the finger at his retreating back and snatched up the invitation. Brilliant. He thought. An evening with VIPs and politicians. Just bloody fantastic.  
  
Ninety minutes, a quick shower, and half arsed ironing job later, Greg was at The Landmark in his best suit (court, weddings and funerals) and only silk tie. And still hopelessly underdressed. Still, he thought, I’m here for my competence, not my fashion sense. The idea was less comforting than he hoped. He headed for the bar.  
  
Within an hour, the evening had fulfilled all of Greg’s worst expectations. He was, a number of interactions had made clear, not important enough to be spoken to beyond an enquiry as to his job. Once this was made clear, off they trotted, in search of someone more interesting. He toyed with the idea of changing his job. MI6, maybe? International man of mystery. He snorted into his whisky. The only bit of recognition he’d had was as ‘The policeman who helps that brilliant detective, you know, Holmes.’ Greg had ground his teeth and vowed never, never to repeat that to Sherlock.

There really wasn’t enough alcohol in this entire bar to make this evening enjoyable. He wondered how early he could slip out. Maybe now would be okay. He’d probably drunk his share of the free bar.  
  
Lestrade felt a presence at his side and sighed, bracing himself for another foray into the world of social banality.  
  
‘Good evening, Detective Inspector.’ A cultivated voice that always filled him with the ridiculous urge to close his eyes to listen, addressed him.  
  
Turning towards the man at his elbow, he opened his mouth to protest, only to be stopped by a raised hand. ‘My apologies,’ Mycroft Holmes said, ‘Gregory.’  
  
_God,_ Lestrade thought, _I love the way he says that_. ‘Right. Well, close enough.’ Greg grinned. ‘Hello Mycroft. What are you doing here?'  
  
Mycroft looked slightly pained. ‘Alas, as a minor functionary in the civil service...’- Greg had had enough alcohol to snort openly at this - Mycroft continued smoothly ‘...it is occasionally my role to represent our department at these occasions, as I understand you are doing this evening.’  
  
Greg nodded. ‘You have to do this kind of thing regularly? You poor sod.’ Mycroft blinked. ‘These people are awful.’  
  
Mycroft wasn’t quick enough to stop the amusement that flashed across his face. He coughed. ‘Well, in fairness...’ Greg shot him a look. Mycroft sighed. ‘No. No, you’re right. They are awful.’  
  
Greg sniggered. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he might be a little too drunk for this conversation. Well, there was one way to remedy that. ‘Mycroft! What’s your poison?’ He tapped the bar to get the bartender’s attention.  
  
Mycroft murmured, ‘I don’t usually... at these occasions...’  
  
‘Nonsense.’ Greg waved at Anthea, tapping away at a discrete distance, ‘You’ve got your lovely assistant there to get you home, the Yard’s finest here, to keep you out of trouble, and all those people,’ he expanded his gesture to encompass the rest of the room, ‘to ignore for as long as possible.’  
  
‘Well, when you put it like that...I’ll have a small scotch.’  
  
‘Great.’ Greg addressed the bartender enthusiastically, 'Large scotch please.’ To Mycroft he said, ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’  
  
As the evening wore on, they retired to a sofa in the corner of the bar. Mycroft, who at Greg’s urging had ordered another scotch, had noticeably relaxed. Getting Mycroft drinking had been inspired, as far as Greg was concerned. Not only had the quality of the scotch improved immediately (he was fairly certain he’d seen Anthea talking to the bartender), Mycroft had loosened up a little thereafter.  
  
At some point during the conversation, Greg realised that he had no idea what Mycroft was talking about. He had stopped listening to just enjoy the sensation of sitting in Mycroft’s company, listening to that warming voice talk about whatever it liked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this comfortable in someone else’s company. Certainly before his divorce. And how strange that it should be Mycroft, of all people. Their first meeting certainly hadn’t done much to suggest they might one day be friends.  
  
He’d never met anyone with such a calculated air of inapproachability as Mycroft Holmes. Impossible to rile, or get a raise out of. No way of cracking that imperturbable facade. Or so Greg had thought. Unless, of course, you were his younger brother. Greg turned his thoughts from that track as quickly as possible. No need to spoil a pleasant evening by raising his blood pressure with thoughts of the world’s finest insulting detective. Still, his mind supplied treacherously, without Sherlock, Mycroft wouldn’t be giving you the time of day.  _And without Sherlock, I wouldn’t know that that buttoned up, cold, officious, superior bloke cared about anything other than power and politics._  
  
Greg watched Mycroft reach for his scotch. He remembered seeing that hand tremble as it reached for the hand of his unconscious brother, touch lightly, and fall away. He remembered the look in Mycroft’s eyes across Sherlock’s hospital bed, as machines beeped and flashed, keeping his brother alive in the wake of his overdose. For all his intelligence and undoubted influence, he had been helpless and afraid in the face of his brother’s addiction. That moment had entirely revised his view of Mycroft, and his relationship with Sherlock.  
  
Life had changed radically for Sherlock since then. With Mycroft’s help, he had got clean. With Greg’s help (well, the help of the cases Greg could put his way), he had stayed that way. And now he had actual friends, who cared, and looked out for him. This had had the side effect of throwing Greg and Mycroft together in mutual Sherlock-related anxiety much less. Which, if you had asked Greg a few years ago, he would have said was an entirely desirable outcome. It was only after the sleek black town car stopped turning up – at his flat, at crime scenes, outside the Yard – that he realised he had started looking out for it.  
  
His own personal life, ironically enough, had fallen apart as Sherlock’s had improved. His wife had left, to no-one’s apparent surprise except Greg’s. Their brief flirtation with reconciliation had been almost casually torpedoed by Sherlock and a PE teacher. Which had, in retrospect, been another one he owed Sherlock, although it hadn't felt like a favour at the time, as Sherlock's interventions often didn't. He had taken to drinking more in the wake of her absence, and Sherlock’s supposed death, and the fall out that had followed. At which point the car had returned. Talk then, as ever, had started with Sherlock, then strayed to new topics. Had become less formal: more, if not friendly, then certainly collegiate. Greg would be hard pressed to identify when this change had happened, but at some point in the last few years the sight of that car had stopped making him tense and started cheering him up.  
  
And over time Mycroft himself had gradually become – again, perhaps friendly was too strong a term, but certainly less guarded. Greg wondered how many people had seen Mycroft Holmes afraid, or affectionate. Remembered the pale, trembling figure that Sherlock had entrusted to his care after the events at Sherrinford. He was prepared to bet the number of people that had been Mycroft Holmes vulnerable were small. Greg felt an unexpectedly warm feeling bloom in his chest at the thought of being one of them, and he smiled affectionately at the man seated next to him.  
  
Mycroft’s drink hit the table with a noticeable snap. ‘My dear Gregory, I have trespassed on your valuable time far too long, and duty calls, I fear.’  
  
Greg blinked. ‘Now? It’s got to be..’ he checked his watch ‘it’s nearly midnight. You’re not telling me you need to work now?’  
  
Mycroft rose smoothly. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t midnight everywhere, and my international colleagues do enjoy keeping office hours.’  
  
Greg hastened to stand, only a slight sway in the attempt betraying the amount of alcohol he had almost unthinkingly consumed. ‘Oh. Right. Well, this was unexpectedly ...fun, actually.’ He kept talking before his conscious mind could intervene. ‘We should do it again sometime.’  
  
An expression flitted across Mycroft’s face that Greg doubted he could have interpreted sober, so right now he had no chance. ‘Goodnight, Detective Inspector.’  
  
‘Right. Okay. Goodnight then.’ This last to Mycroft’s departing back. Greg sat down heavily on the sofa again, suddenly feeling much more sober, and a lot less cheerful.  
  
Later, in his flat, a mental review of the evening concluded that he hadn’t said or done anything that would cause Mycroft to leave. He had a vague idea he had made Mycroft uncomfortable, but couldn’t quite figure out how. He’d been friendly, but they’d both been drinking and it hadn’t been a formal evening. So the work excuse was probably true. Probably.  
  
Three weeks later, Greg had almost managed to put the evening entirely out of his mind.  
  
*  
  
Anthea frowned at the closed door to her boss’s office. Operation Downtime had been going so well. Compared to the rest of her job, getting her boss and DI Lestrade in the same room at a social occasion had been child’s play. Persuading Mr Holmes that his company would be welcomed by the aforementioned DI when they had just happened to spot him at the bar had been only slightly more difficult, and if Mycroft had suspected an ulterior motive, he had given no sign. The tricky part had been preventing the rest of the world from interrupting. She had intercepted nine phone calls and several direct messages, replied to 17 ‘very urgent’ emails, and physically intercepted three people. After that, she had just ensured a supply of excellent scotch and let the evening run its course. And from everything she saw, the evening had been going very well indeed. Most promising. Until Mycroft had abruptly stood up and left. For no reason that Anthea could determine. And since then, she had not been able to devise an event to get them back in a room together.  
  
Her attention was caught by email arriving in her inbox, apologising for being unable to attend today’s meeting of the Intelligence and Security Committee. She finished reading it and frowned. Someone must have died. You didn’t send apologies for a meeting chaired by Mycroft Holmes for any less a reason, and rarely even then, unless you were the actual corpse in question. Then her eyes widened. _And sometimes the universe helps those who help themselves._  
  
Neutralising her expression, she picked up her tablet, and glided into Mycroft’s office.  
  
‘Everything is ready for this morning, sir, but we have had one apology.’ She paused. ‘From the police service.’  
  
Mycroft looked up in disbelief. ‘After the fuss the Commissioner made about being invited, we finally extend an invitation, and after three meetings he sends his apologies? Are we perhaps a little dull for him?’  
  
Anthea smothered a grin. ‘No sir, the Commissioner will still be attending; the apologies are from his office on behalf of Chief Superintendent Willis. He has been in an accident. Not actually life threatening, but he is unconscious.’  
  
‘You’ve set me up nicely for a comment about how I wouldn’t notice the difference, but I’m feeling charitable this morning, so I shall refrain.’ Mycroft set his pen down. ‘I don’t wish to sound unsympathetic, and I realise I may regret starting this conversation, but why was the no doubt estimable Chief Superintendent Willis attending a meeting of the highest security officers in the land in the first place?’  
  
‘The Commissioner likes to connect with the ranks, sir. Keep in touch with the boots on the ground, was the phrase he used. He’s often shadowed by someone from the lower ranks. Welcomes their input, apparently.’  
  
Mycroft sighed. ‘How very egalitarian of him. Although surely he would be better served in that noble aim by someone of a lower rank than Chief Superintendent?’  
  
‘Apparently there are a limited number of lower ranks with the necessary clearance.’  
  
Mycroft nodded. ‘Ah. Well in that case he will have to do without on this occasion, I’m not inclined to have someone vetted and cleared in less than two hours to suit the Commissioner’s desire to connect with the common man.’  
  
‘Actually sir, there is.... there are other lower ranked officers we’ve vetted and cleared, I could make a suggestion to the Commissioner?’  
  
Mycroft was already turning back to his notes. ‘Fine, tell him to bring whoever you think best.’  
  
Anthea managed to keep the smile off her face until she reached her desk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the first two chapters of this back in April (although they were written nearly two years ago), when I was getting rid of my old laptop and deleting files. Fast forward to a few weeks ago, and I thought I’d log on and delete them because I couldn’t even remember where the story was going. 
> 
> And people had left kudos! And commented!! Actual comments! Positive ones! God, I love the people on this site. Y'all are so awesome. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read and comment, I know this isn’t the best (especially not in this fandom, because yikes the standard is high), and this isn’t my usual OTP, so I’m outside my comfort zone, and positive comments are so, so appreciated. 
> 
> Cue much late-night sweating over laptop to try and produce something. Still not finished, but I hope you like it. Bloody hell fire, my Mycroft is stubborn. Anyway. Onwards.

 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was not a man easily intimidated. He prided himself on being able to take things in stride, keep a cool head, treat all men equal, et cetera. But this....this was ridiculous.  

Less than an hour ago he had been summoned to the Chief Super’s office to be informed that he had been selected at very short notice for the great – and to Greg’s mind, entirely dubious – honour of shadowing the Commissioner for the day. The Commissioner was apparently going to a meeting of the Intelligence and Security Committee and the DI’s attendance was requested. Requested in a ‘do this or pack your desk’ manner. A briefing pack that could have sunk the QE2 had appeared on his desk, covered with more ‘confidential’ labels and security encryption than he’d ever seen in one place. He’d barely made it through the agenda and one briefing paper before having to leave to meet the Commissioner, a man whose hand he’d previously only shaken once, and now he was in Whitehall, surrounded by people whose names he’d only heard on television, or bandied disparagingly around the office in late night bitching sessions against the security services.  

The Commissioner, after a rocky start where he seemed unsure of Greg’s name, seemed to be enjoying showing off his acquaintance with the important members of the committee, something that would usually have got on Lestrade’s nerves, but in this instance he was grateful for the man’s commentary, as it meant he didn’t have to contribute to the conversation. So far he had pointed out ‘heads of’ from the Secret Intelligence Service, the Security Service, Government Communications Headquarters, and Defence Intelligence, as well as senior civil servants from the Home Office and the Cabinet Office.  

‘No politicians?’ Greg wondered aloud.  

The Commissioner laughed, then said aside, just for Greg’s hearing, ‘God no, we try to discourage them wherever possible. Officially, they are invited, but they rarely come. Again, officially, the Prime Minister chairs the meeting, but actually he leaves it to someone far more competent. Which is a relief all round. The man might be bloody intimidating, but he’s sharp as they come, and knows this stuff inside out. We actually get things done sometimes.’ The Commissioner frowned. ‘Cold fish though. You’ll never catch him smiling. Gets disconcerting after a while.’ Greg mentally renewed his private vow to say nothing at all for the next three hours.  

In the single most well-appointed meeting room Greg had ever been in (not that that bar was especially high), he was slightly anxious to find himself sitting next to the Commissioner at the polished, probably mahogany, conference table. He’d hoped, being a last-minute replacement, that he might be sat to the side, out of the way. No such luck. The other down side of his current position was that it put him almost directly opposite the head of the table where the chair would presumably sit.  _No chance for a bit of Angry Birds if this gets dull then_ , Greg thought, turning through his papers in the vain hope that a few minutes of scrutiny now would make up for only having seen them an hour ago.  He remembered trying a similar approach for some of his exams in school. It hadn’t worked then either. He was still reading when, activated by some signal Greg had entirely missed, the chairs around him scraped back and those attendees not already standing stood again. As the chair of the meeting entered and took his place at the head of the table, Greg looked up and stared in astonishment at Mycroft Holmes.  

Only someone who knew Mycroft as well as Greg did would have seen the microcosmic look of shock that widened his eyes for less than a half a second before that neutral mask slipped firmly back into place.  

 _He didn’t know I was going to be here_ , Greg thought. Then:  _Minor position in the British government, my arse. He is going to hear about this the next time I see him. I hope it’s soon._   

Dimly, he realised everyone around him had already sat back down and opened their briefing notes, and he was stood like an idiot, staring at Mycroft. Greg dropped into his chair like he’d been shot and the legs scraped noisily across the floor, causing some around the table to stare at him. Mycroft, who had already opened the meeting, sharpened his tone slightly, which was all that was needed to switch all attention instantly back to him, but not before he shot Greg a look that could have been amused, but Greg was far too busy pretending to be absorbed in his papers to tell.  

The discussion soon fell into what he thought was an accustomed rhythm. An hour passed before Greg even noticed. Following the discussion wasn’t as difficult as he had feared, not least because Mycroft possessed an unparalleled ability to listen, summarise, and problem solve as they went along.  _He’s the smartest guy in the room_ , Greg thought with admiration.  _And this is a hell of a room_.  

As if sensing his scrutiny, Mycroft’s eyes momentarily flicked to Greg. Greg, unable to restrain himself, grinned at him. Mycroft, mid-sentence, stuttered infinitesimally, before continuing in his reply.  

After the hour mark, they reached discussion of the only briefing paper that Lestrade had actually had time to read. He sat up straighter and listened with interest. The representative from the security services, a tall, suave, good looking younger man in a suit that rivalled Mycroft’s for appeal, who Lestrade was trying hard not to dislike on sight, was outlining the reasons the joint security service / met police operation hadn’t gone to plan. After fairly short order it became clear that, in so many words, the blame was going to the police officers and personnel on the ground. Greg frowned in irritation. That didn’t reflect the papers he’d read. He glanced around the table. Everyone else was either looking at the speaker, or their papers, listening with varying degrees of interest, and no-one seemed aware of the discrepancy.  

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to Greg and back to the speaker so quickly Greg wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t imagined it.  

The M15 rep wrapped up his summary with what Greg felt was an immensely patronising, ‘Of course, the police officers concerned wouldn’t have had the experience our personnel have with facing armed opposition so their reaction was to be expected.’  

He looked at the Commissioner for confirmation, who added smoothly, ‘Indeed, and for that we can all be grateful, but perhaps some further training is in order. I’ll certainly take that under consideration.’ 

Greg stared at him in angry disbelief. He couldn’t be serious.  _No experience with armed opposition? What city do you live in, mate?_ **_And_ ** _that wasn’t the bloody problem._  

He turned to the representative from the security services. ‘Did you tell them?’ Beside him, the Commissioner stiffened. Eyes around the table flicked to him in surprise. ‘I mean, did the words ‘and you'll be facing some armed bastards trying to off you' actually feature in their briefing at all? Because if there’s no indication in here that they were told, and in that case their approach was spot on, to my eye.’ He tapped the briefing papers next to him. ‘There’s a note in here about the communication between the security services and the police. It’s one and half pages. There’s more information about the cars used in the original stakeout. If you’re looking for the problem with this op, I’d start there, and leave off the men and women you were essentially using as cannon fodder.’  

In the silence that followed Greg’s outburst he wondered briefly if he’d be allowed to pack his desk or if he’d need to get Sally to do it.  

The M15 rep said, in a disbelieving tone, ‘I’m sorry, who are you again?’  

Beside him, the Commissioner said, in a voice that indicated the Sally desk packing option was far more likely, ‘You’ll have to forgive Detective Inspector – er, the Detective Inspector, he’s here to observe, and isn’t familiar with these operations -’ 

A voice from the other end of the table said, in a tone that could be politely described as glacial, ‘He has a point though, does he not?’   

All eyes flicked back to Mycroft, who continued, 'This is an issue that has arisen  _before_ , gentlemen. We are one in aim if not in  statutory   body and yet these communication problems continue to dog our efforts to  _act_ as one. It cannot be allowed to continue. Perhaps the Detective Inspector would be willing to assist you in developing an effective briefing for our police service colleagues going forward?’ 

The M15 rep said stiffly, ‘Well,  _that_ would be –’ Lestrade wasn’t sure how that sentence had been going to end, but under Mycroft’s icy stare what came out was ‘– very helpful.‘   

Mycroft’s gaze, which had been flicking between the Commissioner and the security services, came to rest on Greg, who swallowed, and said, ‘Yeah, sure, happy to help.’  

Mycroft smiled. ‘Excellent. Thank you, Detective Inspector – it is  _Lestrade_ , isn’t it?’ 

Greg stared at his entirely innocent expression across the table and ground out, ‘It is, yeah.’  _He’s messing with me. He’s actually messing with me._   _Bastard_. He didn’t think he'd ever wanted to jump someone in a meeting so badly in his life.  

Towards the back end of hour two, Greg’s mind had drifted almost entirely from the agenda. It wasn’t that the meeting wasn’t interesting – it was probably fascinating, to be fair, but Greg’s understanding of what was actually going on was significantly hampered by not having been to any of the previous meetings, having no knowledge of the operations referred to, and not having had time to read the papers.  However, it wasn’t proving the handicap to interest that Greg had feared, as to Greg’s way of thinking, the man chairing it was by far the most interesting thing in the room anyway. It was odd, he thought, the difference between knowing intellectually that Mycroft was smart – he was, after all, a Holmes – and seeing it in action.  Mycroft was  _brilliant_.  

* 

Anthea, observing from the corner, tablet in hand, was enjoying the satisfaction of watching a plan successfully execute itself. DI Lestrade couldn’t stop staring at her boss. And not, she felt sure, just because he was chairing the meeting. She bounced a little on her heels. There was a good chance that Lestrade hadn’t made any arrangements for lunch, and Mycroft’s schedule was  _miraculously_ clear. She bent her head to her tablet and tapped out some instructions.  

* 

The meeting wrapped up exactly on time. The Commissioner descended on the senior representative from the Home Office with worrying purpose. Greg stood, slightly awkwardly. He had been hoping to speak to Mycroft, but no sooner had he declared the meeting closed than the representatives from GCHQ had pulled him aside, and were now talking emphatically as Mycroft nodded. Greg wandered towards the door, trying to catch Mycroft’s eye.  _Don’t be an idiot_ , he thought,  _he’s not going to have a chance to pass the time of day with the least important guy in the room_. Sighing, he looked for the Commissioner, who waved a hand in his direction and called ‘I’ll see you back at the Yard, Lestrade.’  

 _Oh_ _lovely_ , Greg thought, w _e came in his car. I’ll just walk then_. He set off towards the door, only to be intercepted.  

‘Good to see you again, Detective Inspector.’ 

He looked in surprise at the woman he had mentally christened Mycroft’s Girl Friday. ‘Hello. It’s - Anthea, isn’t it?’ He didn’t add, I wasn’t aware you actually spoke. Or communicated beyond that tablet.  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I know your surname.’  

Unperturbed, she replied. ‘Anthea is fine.’  

‘Right. Well, it’s Greg, then.’  

She smiled at him. He thought, with some surprise: she’s actually quite lovely when she’s not busy being intimidating as hell.  

She said smoothly, ‘It seems the Commissioner has abandoned you. Can I order you a car?’  

Greg blinked. ‘Really? That would be - great actually.’ 

She smiled. ‘Then walk this way, Det- Greg.’ She touched his elbow and lightly steered him down a small corridor. Her heels clicked authoritatively on the polished floor. ‘Whilst you’re waiting, can I interest you in some lunch? Mr Holmes usually gets something sent up from the restaurant when we’re here.’ 

‘I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.’  

She waved a hand. ‘It’s no trouble. It would be nice for Mr Holmes to have some company for a change.’ She dipped her head conspiratorially as they stopped at a thick wooden door towards the end of a second, quieter hallway. ‘And the food really is excellent.’ 

Greg had a mental image of the food in the work’s canteen. Some of which was labelled, with worrying non-specificity, ‘meat’. He said, ‘That would be brilliant. Thanks.’ 

Anthea had flashed a card at a nondescript panel in the wall, and the door clicked open. She smiled again. ‘Lovely. Any dietary requirements I should be aware of?’ 

Lestrade had the odd impression that she was asking a question she already knew the answer to. He said, ‘If you’d seen what we eat on the job sometimes, you wouldn’t even bother to ask.’ 

Her smile widened. ‘Good to know Chef won’t have to work too hard to impress. If you just wait in here, I’ll be a few minutes.’ 

She ushered Greg into the room and swept out again. As the door clicked shut Greg took a moment to examine the room. It was much less formal than the one he’d left, and quieter, since the door effectively erased the noise from the rest of the building. The windows were small, reinforced, and only really lit the side of the room nearest the door, where a table that could comfortably accommodate two for lunch, but no more, waited invitingly. With the policeman’s subconscious instinct that any dark space left unlit – especially during the day – was either currently or likely to become a crime scene, Greg wandered over to the shadowed end of the room. A fireplace that hadn’t contained a fire since Adam was a lad greeted him forlornly, along with a shelf of books that were older than Greg by a factor of decades, and an armchair that appeared far more comfortable than its age and condition might indicate.  

Suddenly aware that he hadn’t much sleep the night before, he’d had a very long and intellectually stressful morning, and lack of food was causing his energy to flag, Greg decided that no one could possibly mind if he put the comfort of the armchair to the test.  

* 

Mycroft tried not to sigh as Edward Griffiths, the dark haired, broad shouldered rep from GCHQ repeated what Mycroft had just said for the second time, albeit using slightly different words and intonation, and looked at him for confirmation. Mycroft nodded, trying to keep the smile on his face. This was all very friendly and he wanted to keep it that way. The fact that he was fast losing patience with this conversation was irrelevant. There were some times – more than the detective himself would credit – that Mycroft envied Sherlock. Right now, he was wishing he had his brother's freedom to be acerbically rude to people who were, frankly, dull.   

Griffiths smiled and touched his arm, a collegiate pat between colleagues. His hand lingered for slightly longer than necessary and Mycroft's mind enthusiastically supplied an image of the last person to do the same. For a moment he was looking into Lestrade’s concerned face, ‘ _Are you okay? You look tired_.’ He had been tired, that day. Had wanted, more than he could remember wanting anything for a long time, to rest against that shoulder. Maybe even be held. Just for a little while.  

They were not entirely physically dissimilar, although even in the grip of emotion, Lestrade’s eyes never seemed to lose their innate warmth, and Griffith’s eyes seemed sharp at all times. And were looking at him now. The thin smile had slipped from friendly to speculative. Mycroft realised with dawning horror that he had, entirely subconsciously, leaned into the other man’s touch. And Griffith’s had noticed. Was even now calculating how to turn this obvious preference to his advantage.  

Mycroft stepped back, entirely out of reach, murmured, ‘Thank you gentleman, a very productive meeting,’ and exited the room as quickly as he could. He headed straight towards the nearest sanctuary: the room Anthea had found for him to retreat to when his opinion was wanted by too many people at once. He cursed himself as he walked, for allowing his mind to wander in such an unnecessary, egregious direction, concluding quickly that if Gregory hadn’t actually been at the meeting, it wouldn’t have happened. He vowed to instruct Anthea that Lestrade was never to be invited again. 

On entering the room, he crossed straight to the small table, sinking down into the chair to take his head in his hands as he waited for his pulse and breathing to regulate. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so dismissive of Anthea’s regular comments around the benefits of vacation time. Perhaps he should keep less taxing hours. Perhaps he should even – date. Even as the thought entered his head his treacherous mind supplied another image: Greg Lestrade, sipping scotch and smiling at him, inches away across a sofa, saying soothing, irrelevant things about his work, his family -  

He was just starting to calm when the voice in his head said gently, ‘Rough day?’ 

For a whole second Mycroft entertained the notion that he was hallucinating, then his head snapped up. Gregory Lestrade was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room, looking a little embarrassed, but mostly worried, as he stared over at Mycroft.  

As Mycroft momentarily struggled to find something more intelligent to reply with than, ‘How did you get in here?’, Greg said, standing and walking towards him across the room, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. Anthea was kind enough offer me lunch and a cab. Said I could wait in here.’ He looked closely at Mycroft, concern on his face, and Mycroft was torn between snapping ‘Stop that, I’m fine’, and fighting the desperate, clawing hope that Lestrade would offer some physical form of comfort – a hand on the shoulder, or -  

Greg sat in the chair opposite, gave him a soft smile. ‘I’m not surprised you’re tired though. That was awesome in there.’ 

Mycroft said faintly, ‘I’m sorry, what was?’ 

Greg’s smile became, impossibly, warmer. ‘You. Telling all of those incredibly important people how to do their jobs. It was brilliant. You’re even smarter than Sherlock, and I didn’t think that was possible.’ 

Mycroft blinked rapidly, then found his voice. ‘I promise here and now never to tell him you said that. He may never speak to you again.’  

Greg grinned. ‘If you can promise me  _that_ , I’ll tell him myself.’  

In spite of himself, Mycroft began to feel a smile tugging his lips. They stared at each other in sympathetic silence for a moment before Greg said, ‘So: minor position in the British Government, huh?’ 

Mycroft drew himself up and cleared his throat. ‘Would you believe that all my superiors were off on the same day?’  

‘At this point I’m not sure I believe you have superiors.’ 

This earned him a quick smile. ‘If only that were true.’ 

‘I thought the guy from MI6 was going to start polishing your shoes at one point.’ 

Mycroft shot him an amused glance. ‘I did him a minor service recently, it has improved relations somewhat, although I have no doubt it is only temporary.’  

‘You know, I don’t think ‘minor’ means what you think it means.’  

‘And I’m not sure it has the absolute definition you’re implying either.’  

Greg shot him a look. ‘You sounded like Sherlock for a second there.’  

Mycroft visibly winced. ‘There’s no need to be insulting, Detective Inspector.’  

‘No, you’re right. My apologies. When they were doling out charm, you got your share and Sherlock’s.’   

Mycroft said dryly, ‘I’m not sure Sherlock’s share was ever that large.’  

‘Well, he has his moments.’ There was a touch of affection in his tone that made Mycroft, for the second time that day, envy Sherlock - specifically his good fortune at running across such a competent, and  fundamentally kind, colleague as Greg Lestrade.  

He acknowledged the comment with an infinitesimal dip of his head. ‘Few and far between as they are.’ His voice was dry but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked across at Greg. Greg smiled back, one of his unexpectedly gentle smiles that Mycroft never tired of seeing, and Mycroft allowed himself the indulgence of holding that look for a long second before dropping his gaze to the table to cover the surge in his heart rate. 

Greg said lightly into the pause in conversation, ‘Er, talking of Sherlock, I called him to a case yesterday. He brought Rose Watson. Strapped to his front in a sling. Couldn’t get a sitter apparently. I told him I wasn’t having my crime scene contaminated with bloody rusks.’ 

Mycroft looked up, amused, ‘What did he say?’ 

‘Gave me a lecture on optimum nutrition for babies. No rusks, apparently. I still sent him home.’   

‘A sensible act for which you will no doubt pay.’   

‘Oh, no doubt.’ Greg said, agreeably. ‘I'm surprised he hasn't been round to steal the case file already. I’ve taken it home, and password protected the online file, just in case.’  

Mycroft said wryly, ‘You are a wicked man, Detective Inspector. And an eminently sensible one where my brother is concerned.’ As he spoke, a sudden break in the clouds increased the light through the narrow windows. From their positions at the table, the light hit Greg at an angle, catching his dark hair, greying in a highly attractive manner at his temples, and highlighting the smile that spread his face in response to Mycroft’s comment.  

Mycroft took a moment to reflect bitterly that even Mother Nature was conspiring against him by contriving to make Greg Lestrade look as enticing as possible in all circumstances. He said quickly, lest his mind, which was apparently refusing to stick to work matters today, wander any further down the path of contemplating the desirability of certain Detective Inspectors, ‘I did enjoy your contribution at the meeting.’   

‘Yeah?’ Greg looked a little embarrassed. ‘I think the Commissioner is going to have me demoted.’  

‘He most certainly will not.’ Mycroft murmured.  

‘Well, I won't be invited back anyway. I think I lowered the tone.’  

Mycroft sighed. ‘I think the tone of that particular meeting could stand some lowering from time to time. We deal often in hypotheticals and a dose of reality can be instructive.’ 

Both men looked up at a click from the door, and it opened to reveal a young man in chef’s whites, followed shortly thereafter by Anthea, who, if she was surprised to see Mycroft, gave no sign.  

* 

As expected, lunch with Mycroft was an improvement on lunch in the canteen by orders of magnitude that Lestrade’s meagre grasp on advanced mathematics left him unable to contemplate. Their talk had ranged from Greg’s cases, to Mycroft’s work - about which Greg felt himself far better informed since this morning – to current affairs, to local news. Not for the first time, Greg found himself quietly marvelling at how easy conversation was with Mycroft. He’d never considered himself especially well educated, or well read, or generally knowledgeable about much outside of the specific areas of expertise needed for his work, but talking to Mycroft always left him feeling like he was surprisingly well informed on a number of topics, and his opinion was valuable on all subjects. Greg had yet to discover the limits of Mycroft’s knowledge on anything, and it filled him with an absurd urge to prolong the conversation as much as possible to see if he could find anything at all Mycroft didn’t know.  

As the time ticked by, he experienced a momentary twinge of guilt at allowing Donovan to assume that his meeting had overrun, and leaving her to conduct the afternoon briefing. He consoled himself with the thought that it was good for her development, and good for the team to consider her in charge in his absence. And also that she enjoyed being the boss. So in all, he was doing absolutely the correct managerial thing in staying here to have lunch with Mycroft. Then the thought occurred that, of the two of them, Mycroft was even more likely to have better things to do this afternoon than talk to him. And after the meeting he was significantly more alert to the importance of Mycroft's work.  

He said suddenly, ‘I’m not keeping you from anything, am I? Tell me to go if you need to.’ 

Mycroft, glass halfway to his lips, blinked in surprise. ‘I do have a meeting to go to, but not for another half an hour. Anthea leaves a break in my schedule after that meeting as it runs over more frequently than not. And she insists that I eat with some regularity.’ 

Lestrade pulled a mock horrified expression. ‘Eating? Regularly? Ye gods. She’s clearly a tyrant.’ 

Mycroft smiled wryly. ‘She is, actually. But also the finest assistant I have ever had the privilege to employ. I would be lost without her.’ This was said in tones of such transparent sincerity that it gladdened Greg’s heart. He felt absurdly grateful to a woman he barely knew _._   

Aloud he said, ‘Well, as long as you’re sure I’m not keeping you.’ 

From his pocket, Mycroft withdrew a slim phone, checked the screen and turned it so Greg could see the dearth of messages on the display. ‘You see? I am unwanted.’  

Greg said with a laugh, and without running the comment through his conscious mind first, ‘God, I know that’s not true.’ 

Mycroft blinked in surprise, and for a moment Greg wondered if the slight pink hue in his cheeks was the result of a blush, then dismissed it as the increasing temperature of the room, as the weather outside improved.  

To cover his own slight embarrassment, he nodded to the phone, ‘So who has that number then? The Prime Minister? The Queen?’ 

Mycroft said, ‘Anthea.’ 

Greg waited for the rest of the list, and when none was forthcoming said, _‘_ That’s it?’  

Mycroft shrugged. ‘She ensures I only receive messages of importance.’ 

Greg said slowly, ‘I’ve texted you before. About Sherlock. You nearly always reply.’ 

‘Forwarded from Anthea. And - occasionally - replied to by her as well, I’m afraid.’ Mycroft had the grace to look a little embarrassed. ‘I used to have a more public number. Anthea decided some filtering system would be appropriate. It has increased my productivity markedly.’ 

Greg said, ‘Right. Yeah, I guess it would.’ He ignored the stab of disappointment the knowledge had engendered. ‘So - no-one ever gets in touch to just, I don’t know, see how your day’s going?’ 

Mycroft looked at him in amused disbelief. ‘No. But to be fair to Anthea’s filtering system, that did not happen prior to its institution either.’  

Greg said, ‘Well I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t have your number. After today, I’d always want to know how your day was going.’  

Mycroft looked at him in surprise. Greg said, a little defensively, ‘Well I would. Even if you didn’t have the most interesting job in the country, you’d still be, you know,  _you_.’ 

An oddly uncomfortable silence descended as Greg cursed his sudden need to overshare and Mycroft sat tensely still.  

After a long moment Mycroft moved so suddenly Greg almost jumped. He produced a pen from his jacket, wrote rapidly on a napkin, and slid it across the table. He said quietly, ‘Now you will always be able to contact me directly.’ He withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. ‘I do not appreciate pictures of animals, cute or otherwise.’ 

Greg pocketed the napkin and clamped down on a grin so wide it threatened to split his face. ‘Emergencies only. Got it.’ 

Mycroft murmured, looking at his plate, and so quietly Greg almost missed it, ‘Perhaps not  _solely_ emergencies.’  

Greg felt slightly overwhelmed without being entirely certain of the cause. As he was about to speak, Mycroft stood, again with that unusual abruptness. He said, and the tone was the one he had used in the meeting earlier, and Greg hadn’t heard since. ‘Forgive me, Detective Inspector, you were quite right. I have recalled a matter in need of my attention prior to my afternoon schedule. Thank you for a most pleasant lunch.’ He had turned and left before Greg had even recovered enough to stammer a goodbye. 

* 

Three hours later, back in his office, Greg sat and stared at the newest number in his phone’s contacts list. He’d spent the previous twenty minutes activating all the security features his phone had to offer. He hadn’t bothered up to this point on the grounds that his phone was too knackered to be of interest to a thief, and there was precisely zero useful information on it, should it be nicked. But somehow, the addition of Mycroft Holmes’ personal number had rendered it an object of value, and Lestrade had downloaded GPS tracking and activated the biometric unlocking software, to reduce the chances of anyone else getting their hands on it.  

‘Not solely emergencies’ Mycroft had said. Did ‘thanks for an amazing lunch’ come into that category? ‘Not solely emergencies’ could be anything really, so a quick thank you text wouldn’t be out of line, surely. He touched the message icon next to Mycroft’s number, typed,  _Hi Mycroft, this is Greg. I did warn you what would happen if you gave me your number. I didn't get a chance to say earlier, so: thank you, that was the best lunch I’ve had in_ _ages_ _._  He paused a moment then added,  _If you ever want appalling canteen food I can return the favour. Or take you somewhere nicer. If you’re ever free. Thanks again, Greg_ . _P.S. See? No picture of kittens in a basket. I can be restrained_. He stopped and erased the message. Then retyped it, changing the wording, then repeated the exercise twice more before finally muttering ‘Oh for god’s sake, Greg’ to himself and pressing send.  

In his contacts list he changed the number he had originally had marked as Mycroft to - Anthea (Mycroft) in case he ever met another, and texted,  _Hi_ _Anthea_ _, Thank you for lunch, and for arranging the car – it was very much appreciated. Hope to see you soon. Cheers, Greg (_ _Lestrade_ _)._  

* 

Across London, Anthea blinked in surprise as the message appeared on her screen. This was the number given out as Mycroft’s. Lestrade had always texted with the assumption that he was speaking to Mr Holmes. The only way Lestrade could be certain that she would see the message and not Mycroft would be if he’d been told that this was not actually Mycroft’s number at all. If he, in fact, had another way to contact Mycroft. A slow smile spread across Anthea’s face as she looked from her phone to the open door to her boss’s office. She hummed to herself as she composed a reply.  _You’re most welcome, Greg. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon._  

 _*_  


	4. Chapter 4

Soon, happily for Anthea’s peace of mind, turned out to be two days later. On the way back from a meeting across the city, she had minimal trouble persuading Mycroft of the benefits of a quick stop to update Lestrade in person on the latest developments with the murder of the security services agent he was investigating. As Mycroft disappeared into New Scotland Yard, she checked her watch and made a bet with herself how much longer a conversation, that should take ten minutes at most, was really going to take on this occasion.   

* 

Arguing with Mycroft was one of the single most frustrating experiences of Greg’s life. Having always believed Sherlock to be slightly irrational on the subject of his brother, Greg was now imagining a lifetime of being confronted with this calm, imperturbable front when what one wanted was a  _reaction_ , and beginning to feel some sneaking sympathy for the detective. Not that he’d ever tell Sherlock, of course. However irritating Mycroft could be, it was a light summer’s breeze of annoyance next to the typhoon of almost homicidal rage Sherlock was capable of invoking. He was nevertheless aware that his irritation was also slightly due to Mycroft’s utter failure to reply to his text of two days ago.  

Mycroft was saying, ‘Of course it was the correct course of action. One life was traded for the overall success of the mission. A mission that put an end to the activities of a criminal organisation, and most likely saved further lives in the future.’ 

Greg said, ‘I’m sure that’ll make her parents feel much better.’ 

Mycroft said with a slightly irritated sigh, as if this discussion was irrelevant once his judgement had been made, ‘Well it should. There are not many deaths that can be said to be anything other than pointless.’  

Greg opened his mouth to respond to this spectacularly cynical pronouncement when a knock at his office door was swiftly followed by Sally’s head around the edge, and the rest of Sally when no protest was immediately forthcoming.  

Greg frowned. She rarely disturbed him when he was with either Mycroft or Sherlock. He put this down to her instinctual dislike of all Holmes’, but it ratcheted his level of concern up a notch as he said ‘What’s up?’ 

She said, ‘Is it Turkey? Where your mum is?’ Greg felt a cold hand touch his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft’s gaze, which had wandered uninterestedly to Sally at her entrance, snap back to him like a whipcrack. Aloud he said ‘And my sister. Why?’  

She said, ‘Look, don’t worry, it’s probably nothing to do with them, but there’s a hostage thing out there. At the airport.’ 

Greg said numbly, feeling like the world was suddenly a long way away, ‘They were flying back today.’ Opposite him, Mycroft had gone very still, watching Greg with a face devoid of expression.  

Sally said, ‘Hold on, there’s a number to call.’ She retreated to her desk, grabbed a pen, began to scribble a number from the screen. Greg followed her, mobile in hand, scrolling through his contacts to his mum’s number and hit dial. After a pause to establish an international connection it began to ring. After ten rings it went to voicemail.  

Sally pushed the number at him. He said tightly, ‘Call it. I’m trying my sister.’ She nodded and dialled, as Greg’s sister’s phone also went to voice mail. Sally said in frustration, ‘It’s engaged. How many Brits can there be out there right now?’ 

Greg said, trying his mum again, ‘Is that the only number?’ Sally said, also redialling, ‘It’s the only one they’re giving out, but it can’t be the only one.’ Greg said, ‘Maybe we could try – ‘ then he blinked, and wheeled back towards his office.  

Mycroft was gone.  

Greg felt a sudden, dizzying sense of loss, and a stab of something that felt a lot like betrayal.  _I’ll call him, he’s practically the government, there must be something he can do._  

 _And if there was something he would be prepared to do_ , his mind supplied, _he’d still be here_. He heard an echo of Mycroft’s last comment in his head, and set his jaw grimly.  

‘Sal, can you just call until you get through? It’s Adele and Jacqueline Lestrade.’ She looked at him and nodded. He scrolled through his contacts again, and called his dad.  

* 

If Anthea was surprised at Mycroft’s sudden reappearance, she gave no sign. He slipped into the car opposite her and snapped, ‘Turkey?’  

Anthea blinked. Nothing had changed since she had updated him half an hour previously on the way to Scotland Yard, and they hadn’t expected it to. She said, mostly repeating herself, ‘Operation Phoenix was a go four hours ago. Our team are on the ground, gathering further intelligence. There have been no demands yet from the hostage takers. Local enforcement is containing the situation, as per instruction, and awaiting further orders from our team.’  

She waited. Mycroft said carefully, ‘The situation....has changed. Do we have a list of the British hostages?’ 

Anthea produced a tablet from the seat next to her, activated it, tapped for a moment, then presented the screen to Mycroft. He scrolled down, highlighted two names, and handed it back. Anthea blinked at the screen and looked back at Mycroft, meeting his gaze. There was a steely cast to her countenance. Mycroft knew with utter certainty that any order he gave would be followed without question.  She waited. Mycroft simultaneously cursed and applauded her loyalty. He thought:  _this is why I don’t have friends_. As the silence stretched, Anthea said, seemingly apropos of nothing, ‘Jeanette is on the team. It would be-‘ she stopped and made an odd fluttering gesture with her hand, that seemed to indicate ‘a mere nothing.’  

Mycroft thought,  _no personal involvement.  No attachments. No exceptions_.  

He said, ‘Get them out.’ 

* 

Greg sat, hunched over his desk, staring at his phone. In the outer office he could hear the muted hum of voices and the drone of a news report. Same words, over and over. Nothing changing, nothing new. His dad knew only what he knew, having also tried and failed to contact Greg’s mother and sister. His sister’s partner knew less, working shifts and having been asleep when Greg rang. The uninformative government number, when finally answered, had confirmed that his mother and sister were known to be at the airport, and that thus far, no-one had been harmed. Everything was being done to resolve the situation. Astonishing how utterly not reassuring that statement was. He had managed to resist calling Mycroft for all of twenty minutes, then given in, pride be damned. There had been no response. Mycroft’s position, in his absolute silence, was clear. Greg had stopped narrowly short of leaving a message outright begging, and not called again.  

In the other room, the newscaster’s voice took on a new note of urgency. ‘...getting a report of shots fired..’ Greg bolted from his chair and snatched Sally’s tablet from her hand, watching the streaming news report as his heart tried to beat out of his chest. He was focussing so entirely on the words of the reporter on the ground that Sally had to physically shake him to get his attention. ‘Guv! Your phone’s ringing.’ The tinny sound percolated through Greg’s consciousness, and he ran back to his office. Number unknown. He hit answer and snapped out, ‘Lestrade.’ 

‘Greggie?’ A quavering female voice came over the line.  

Greg felt his knees give way and he slumped against his desk. ‘Mum. Are you okay? Where are you?’ 

She sounded like she either was, or had been crying. Her voice had a slightly gasping quality that he had never heard before, that made his heart clench. ‘We’re on a plane, we’re okay, we’re okay. Whatever you did, thank you. Thank you so much.’ She was crying again, and he couldn’t stand it.  

He said, ‘Mum, is Jac with you, can you put her on?’  

There was a pause, and then his sister’s voice said coolly, ‘Alright there, plod?’ 

Greg lowered himself into his chair. He said, pleased with the steadiness of his voice, ‘I’ve had better days. What the hell did you get yourselves mixed up in? Are you both alright?’ 

Jac said, with more certainty than his mother had, ‘We’re fine. Just ....they shot a man, in front of us all.’ Her voice quavered slightly, then steadied. ‘One of the armed men, straight through the head. They got the others as well. It was all over really fast. Then this woman walks over, calm as anything, all, ‘Are you Mrs and Ms Lestrade?’, posh as you bloody like. We didn’t know what to say, I mean, she’d just  _shot someone,_  then she says to mum ‘Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sent me to bring you home ma’am.’ Like mum’s the bloody Queen or something. Next thing we know we’re on this plane, which is – I think these seats are leather – ‘ she stopped, then said, ‘You’ve got some scary friends, Greg.’  

Greg had listened to this narrative with mounting disbelief.  _One_ . He thought.  _I’ve got one scary friend._  He said, ‘When do you land?’ 

Jac said, ‘Three hours. London City Airport. There’s going to be a car to take us home, apparently.’ 

Greg said, ‘Tell them thanks, but no thanks. I’ll meet you.’  

She said, ‘I think mum’d like that.’ Sally had appeared in the doorway, grinning at him in relief.  

He said, ‘Right, I’ll see you then. Try not to get into any more trouble in the meantime.’  

She said, ‘Oh sod off.’ There was a murmur in the background. Jac said, ‘You tell him. Oh fine. Mum said she loves you. I can take you or leave you, myself.’  

Greg laughed in sheer relief. He said, ‘Give mum my love. And I love you too, short stuff.’ 

She said, ’Yeah, whatever, plod.’ And rang off.  

Greg looked up at Sally. She said, ‘They’re okay?’ 

He said, feeling a grin split his face, ‘They’re okay.’  

Sally punched the doorframe and whooped.  

Still grinning, Greg said, ‘Hey, didn’t your shift end an hour ago?’ 

She said quickly, ‘And don’t think I won’t be claiming overtime.’ 

His face softened into a smile. He said, ‘Thanks Sal. I really-‘ 

She huffed at him, waving a hand and turning away, calling, ‘I’m going home before you embarrass yourself.’  

Greg turned back to his phone, thumbing through his contacts until he found the one he wanted. He hesitated over the call button. Just a phone call didn’t seem enough, somehow. A text definitely wasn’t. He looked at the time. His shift was over too. He grabbed his coat and headed out.  

He had only been to Mycroft’s office a couple of times, and wasn’t entirely convinced it was actually Mycroft’s place of work, but it was all he had, so he went and asked the supercilious young man on the desk if he could see Mr Holmes. The young man looked like he thought this was unlikely, but dialled an extension anyway, and blinked in surprise at the reply. Apparently, Lestrade was permitted to enter. Outside Mycroft’s office, Anthea was typing away at a laptop and looked up as Lestrade came into the anteroom.  

She gave him an almost smile which emboldened Lestrade to ask, ‘Is he here?’ 

She said, ‘I’m afraid Mr Holmes has gone home for the evening.’  

Greg felt absurdly disappointed. To cover it he said, faux-cheerfully, ‘Already? It’s not even midnight.’ 

This did earn him a quickly suppressed smile. Anthea said, ‘Half day.’  

‘Ah right.’ Greg said, hopefully, ‘I don’t suppose you’d, er, I mean, I know it’s probably confidential and all that, but..’  _Christ_ , he thought,  _I asked my ex to marry me with more finesse than this_ , ‘I don’t, er, I don’t suppose you could tell me where he lives, at all?’ 

Anthea said, ‘I can’t tell you, I’m sure you understand.’  

Greg said, ‘Yes, absolutely, right, sorry-‘ 

Anthea continued as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘However, if I were to be especially preoccupied with replying to this email, and you were to glance at the paper on top of that pile there - to your right, Inspector, yes, there, very good - then no harm would be done, I’m sure.’  She typed with even more than her usual assiduousness.  

Greg looked where she indicated. A single address was written in neat, clear longhand on the top sheet. He looked at it, then cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’ll be going then, thanks for all your help.’ She waved him away, typing without looking up until he left the room. Then she stopped typing, reached for the top sheet of paper and, looking after Greg with a smile, carefully set it on fire.  

* 

Mycroft was tired. Had been tired, he felt, for much of the last few years, but only recently had it begun to really bother him. He thought again that perhaps he shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Anthea’s regular comments around the benefits of vacation time. But the idea of the tonnage of work he would face on his return and the notion of what other, less effective, members of the elite club of civil servants within which he operated would get up to in his absence was sufficiently horror-inducing to render the benefits of any holiday entirely moot.  

A distant chime sounded from the front of the house. Mycroft glanced across at an exposed panel on the wall. It showed live footage of DI Lestrade, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot on Mycroft’s doorstep. Mycroft frowned. The point of leaving the office early had been to avoid seeing anyone who might ask awkward questions about the operation in Turkey, and to attempt to have an actual evening off for once. And now someone – _Anthea_ – had told Gregorywhere he lived.  Mycroft sighed and sat back to wait for Lestrade to leave. As he watched, Lestrade glanced uncomfortably up and down the street, before running a surreptitious hand through his hair – making it even more of an uncontrolled mess than it had been – and looked down at his clothes, straightening his tie, and brushing some invisible crumbs from his jacket. Mycroft began to smile, before feeling the motion and stopping it dead. No. If today had made one thing clear, it was this: Sherlock was enough vulnerability, enough liability. He could not afford another. He could not afford another situation like today. Lestrade would walk away, and Mycroft would ensure he stayed away.  

The door chime sounded again. Mycroft kept his eyes averted from the panel and willed Lestrade to leave. Then his mobile rang. On the screen, Lestrade had his phone to his ear. Almost against his will Mycroft reached across and touched the sound icon on the small screen. Lestrade’s voice from the doorstep echoed in the quiet room.  

‘...didn’t want to do this on the phone, but I went to your office and you weren’t there, and now I'm at your house, and you’re not in, so...’ Lestrade stopped. ‘Look. What you did today-‘ he broke off. Mycroft watched as he swallowed, heard him clear his throat, ‘-I can’t ever repay that. I know I called, but I didn’t expect, Christ-‘ he stopped again. –it’s just, they’re my family, you know?’ He huffed a laugh, ‘Yeah, I know you know.’ On the screen, he looked at Mycroft’s door and smiled. Mycroft felt something inside break a little as Lestrade said, ‘Thank you. Just - thanks.’ Mycroft wondered if his eyes had moistened for a moment, or if it was a trick of the screen resolution. Lestrade was saying, ‘Listen. If there’s ever anything- I mean, it’s unlikely but, well, you know where I am.’ He waited a moment, then, ‘See you ‘round, Mycroft.’ He lowered the phone and the room fell silent.  

Mycroft felt the silence like a visceral thing, like the emptiness of the overlarge house, like the utter absence of emotion in his life, like his sudden desperation to bask in the gratitude and affection of that smile. No-one ever looked at him like that. As many had cause to hate him as to be grateful to him, but no-one was ever grateful, and all at once he wanted it. Wanted affection, wanted it like oxygen, wanted it not from the nameless and faceless millions, but specifically from Gregory Lestrade. Before he could think better of it, he reached over and pressed the button that opened the door.  

On the screen, Greg had reached the bottom of the steps. At the click of the security latch, he turned and smiled that smile again, moving back towards the door.  

*

The entrance hall of the house was elegantly and plainly functional, like the cover photo of an interior design magazine special on London town houses. But no more than that. It was beautiful, overlarge, and oddly soulless. Greg turned to push the door, but it swept itself imperiously from his reaching hand and closed automatically with an almost soundless click. Greg turned back to the empty interior and looked askance at the no doubt rare and expensive rug in front of him. In his line of work, he didn’t generally ask permission to enter premises and didn’t worry too much about tracking in dirt when he got there. But in this case he was giving serious thought to taking his shoes off. He’d almost given in to the impulse, when a voice from further down the hall said quietly, ‘Good evening, Detective Inspector.’  

He looked up. Ahead of him, beyond the sweep of the staircase, in a doorway almost concealed by the shadows cast by the chandelier through the staircase balustrade, Mycroft had materialised just outside a warmly lit room. Greg blinked, momentarily unsure of himself. Mycroft looked – worn down. He had removed his omnipresent suit jacket, and although the expensive cotton shirt and finely tailored waistcoat remained, the sleeves of the former were rolled up slightly, and the latter was only closed by one button. Greg was, he realised, seeing Mycroft Holmes off duty. With his guard, if not down, then somewhat reduced. Greg felt a pang of guilt. He’d been so determined to track Mycroft down, to thank him, that he hadn’t even stopped to wonder if this might be a good time for uninvited guests. He wondered how much off duty time Mycroft got. Not much, he imagined.  

He said, ‘Er...hey, Mycroft. Is this a bad time?’  

But Mycroft was nothing if not quintessentially polite, in almost all circumstances. He said, with seeming sincerity, ‘Not at all. As a matter of fact, I had just finished for the evening.’ He gestured to an antique stand near the door. ‘Feel free to leave your coat and come through.’ 

Greg looked at him carefully. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.’ 

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. Greg looked at him curiously. When Mycroft spoke again it was in a strangely brittle tone that Greg had never heard from him before. He said quickly, ‘Actually, I was just thinking that company would be...pleasant. If you aren’t in any rush.’  

He fell back abruptly into the lamp-lit interior, and Greg followed, quickly divesting himself of his coat, and compromising on keeping his shoes on, but skirting the rug. He crossed from the sterile hallway into the warmth and light of the room beyond and had the immediate sensation of intruding somewhere private and rarefied. A couple of richly appointed and almost obscenely comfortable looking armchairs, plus a sofa possessed of more comfortable pillows than Lestrade’s bed, surrounded an ornate and finely carved fireplace, where a fire was carefully and precisely laid, but unlit. An overfilled bookcase took up an entire wall, and heavy drapes covered what Lestrade guessed was a window onto the garden behind the house. The only light in the room came from a pair of sconces either side of the fireplace, which cast a warm and unobtrusive glow over the whole scene.  

Lestrade suddenly wished he’d taken his shoes off after all, if only to make it easier to give in to the impulse to curl up against the plush cushioning of the sofa, instead of the awkward perch on the edge that he ended up executing in answer to Mycroft’s murmured, ‘Do sit down.’ Mycroft’s gesture had been vague enough to encompass both an armchair and the sofa, and Lestrade momentarily agonised over the choice. There was a laptop and some papers on the arm of the armchair nearest to the fire, clearly where Mycroft had been sitting, which meant the obvious choice was the facing armchair. But that, to Lestrade’s eye, felt oddly formal. And also entirely precluded the notion that Mycroft might sit next to him. Refusing to examine why this might be a disappointing outcome, Lestrade sat on the sofa, gamely resisting the urge to lean back and surrender to it’s tempting comfort.  

Mycroft had crossed to a decanter on a small side table next to his chair. He raised it in Lestrade’s direction. ‘I assume you are off duty, Detective Inspector. Can I tempt you?’  

Greg said, ‘Well, only if you start calling me Greg, otherwise it’ll feel like I’m still on duty.’ 

Mycroft smile flickered into being. ‘Noted.’ He poured what even to Greg’s experienced eye was an excessively generous amount of the amber liquid – scotch, Greg guessed, and a good one at that – into an empty glass.  

Taking the glass from Mycroft’s outstretched hand, Greg eyed the drink inside. The smell alone was announcing the quality of the product within. ‘Not to sound ungrateful, but just out of curiosity: how much of my daily salary am I drinking here?’  

Mycroft, who had refilled his own glass, sat on the opposite end of the sofa, and extended a hand along the back. ‘If I said most of it, would it effect the chances of you drinking it?’ 

‘Not at all.’ Greg grinned. ‘To be honest, it would increase the chances of me asking for a refill.’ 

Mycroft smiled back. ‘In that case, and in the interests of full disclosure, I’m not actually certain your daily salary would cover it.’  

Greg eyed the glass in his hand with new respect. ‘Wow. Okay. In that case, this is going to require some serious relishing.’ He set the glass on a side table and undid his suit jacket, shrugging out of it, and loosened his tie. He glanced at Mycroft. ‘If that’s okay?’ 

In the lamplight, some of Mycroft’s tiredness and sharp edges had smoothed away. He said, ‘I would be gratified if you would consider yourself at home.’ 

Leaning back, Greg surrendered to the sofa, seizing his glass again and swirling the liquid inside. ‘At home. And it’s Friday. Right. So what you should expect now is for me to drink until I’m mildly inebriated - which won’t take long – order some appalling takeout, drink some more, watch some utter rubbish on the television, fall into some level of existential despair about the state of my life, and pass out on the  sofa.’ Greg delivered this in an archly matter of fact tone, and was rewarded with a sound he’d rarely heard before – quickly suppressed – Mycroft’s laughter.  

Mycroft said, still smiling, ‘And yet, still better than my evening.’  

Greg laughed in his turn, and smiled back. ‘Oh, come on. I don’t buy for a second that you’re as tragically devoid of a social life as me.’ 

Mycroft said simply, ‘I am a Holmes.’ 

Greg paused. ‘Okay. Fair point.’  

The moment stretched to a silence that should have been uncomfortable, but somehow wasn’t. Greg took a sip of his drink. And froze. After a long, long moment he swallowed, then closed his eyes as the aftertaste continued its work.  

He opened his eyes to see Mycroft watching him over the rim of his own glass. Mycroft said innocently, ‘I trust the scotch is acceptable?’  

‘Dear God.’ Greg looked down at his glass in disbelief, and back at Mycroft. ‘I feel like I should be arresting you for something. Nothing this good can possibly be legal.’ 

Amusement danced across Mycroft’s face. ‘That’s a worrying sentiment from an officer of the law.’  

‘I’m serious. You certainly shouldn’t be wasting this on me. It should be in a glass case somewhere, surrounded by the kind of security you have to rappel down from the ceiling to overcome.’ 

Mycroft said, ‘Well, that would certainly liven up my Friday evenings.’ He caught Greg’s eye and Greg found himself laughing again. 

 _Not just smart, but_ _funny_ , he thought.  _And_ _I’m not even drunk._   

Holding Mycroft’s gaze, he took another sip. 

Mycroft said abruptly, ‘Much as I am enjoying your company – was there a reason for your visit?’ 

Greg’s eyes, which had briefly closed to better savour the whiskey, snapped open and he swallowed. ‘God, yes, sorry.’ He sat forward and his face assumed a serious aspect. ‘Yes, look, about today. I came to thank you.’  

Mycroft said smoothly, ‘I think you may be overestimating my - ‘ 

Greg said quickly. ‘No. Don’t do that. Don’t pretend. Let me get this out. You did something. I know you did something. And my mum, and my sister, are coming home. Safe. Because of you. And now I can’t - ‘ Greg stopped, and abruptly downed almost of the rest of his whiskey without even tasting it. ‘Now I’m here I don’t know how to thank you. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’ He looked down at the nearly empty glass in his hands. ‘They’re all I’ve got, you know? I - ‘ 

He looked up, directly into Mycroft’s eyes, and continued, with an almost palpable earnestness. ‘Thank you. God, I know it’s inadequate, but thank you. And if there’s ever anything -’ 

Mycroft held up a hand. ‘There is really no need to thank me. I merely facilitated an outcome that may well have happened anyway.’  

At the look on Greg’s face he added quietly, ‘And - you have saved my - family - many times.’ 

Greg looked at him in surprise, and opened his mouth to protest that construction of events. He had shifted closer on the sofa whilst talking, and was now less than an arm's length away. Mycroft dropped his hand from the back of the sofa and hovered a single finger millimeters from Greg’s lips. Whatever protest Greg had been about to make died in his throat. He breathed out, and Mycroft’s eyes widened. Greg thought suddenly that his motives in coming here hadn’t been nearly as pure as he’d almost convinced himself they were.  

Mycroft cleared his throat, suddenly awkward, and dropped his hand. 'But in the unlikely event that anyone asks – we aren’t friends. In fact, you can’t stand me. I know literally no-one who won’t find that convincing.’ 

Greg didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned slightly closer. ‘Then they’re all idiots. I can stand you. I could stand to see more of you, as it goes.’ Mycroft looked at him in stunned silence.  

Greg flushed, ‘Oh Christ, I meant – you know, time-wise, not – oh  _God_ \- ‘ 

Mycroft seized Greg’s empty glass, and moved to the decanter.  

Greg said quickly, ‘Listen, I - I really shouldn’t -it’s far too expensive -’ 

Mycroft managed, ‘Nonsense,’ then stopped, and put the decanter down. After a moment he straightened and turned. ‘Actually, Detective Inspector, it has been a long and trying day. I do appreciate your visit, but there was really no need. You can feel free to leave me to my evening. Duty discharged.’ 

Lestrade, whose eyes had gone from Mycroft’s face, to the drink in his hand, and back to his face, stared back at him in open surprise for a moment before standing quickly. ‘Oh right. Okay. Right. Sorry.’ He fumbled for his jacket, slipped it back on, and waited. Mycroft didn’t move. Greg added awkwardly, ‘Thanks. This was - nice.’ At no response, he headed for the door.  

In the doorway, he stopped and took a breath. He said suddenly, quietly, ‘This is the third time you’ve done this.’ He turned back to Mycroft. ‘I think we’re getting along well. I  _think_ we do. It feels like we are.’ He frowned. ‘And then all of sudden, it’s like I do something wrong. Something to make you uncomfortable.’ He shifted in place, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Can I ask you – can you tell me what it is?’  

Mycroft froze. Greg continued awkwardly, ‘You see, the thing is, Mycroft, I – I like you. I like spending time with you. And if I keep doing something to mess that up, I’d like to know what.’ 

Mycroft said, ‘Gregory, I assure you, I am simply overtired from a trying day.’ The voice of the consummate diplomat was so practiced Greg was nodding along before Mycroft had even finished speaking.  

Greg thought,  _well at least I know_ , even as his heart clenched in distress. He said, ‘Right. Course. Sorry. I’ll get out your way.’  

He had turned away again and was about to step out of the room when a voice behind him said quietly,  _‘Gregory_.’ 

He turned. The diplomat was gone, and in his place was a Mycroft Greg hadn’t seen in years: anxious, uncertain, and vulnerable. He took a step back into the room.  

Mycroft said, hesitantly. ‘Gregory, I -. He took a breath and stopped, before starting again, still with that unfamiliar, uncertain tone, ‘Of late, I have observed - that is, I have ventured to hope – and I do hope you won’t find this assertion presumptuous, and not entirely inaccurate, or this will be embarrassing - that I am fortunate enough to be in receipt of a certain level of affectionate regard from you, even exceeding that of friendship which I have for some time now enjoyed, which is entirely gratifying, I assure you, and I would in no way seek to take that for granted, or squander it on a whim.’ 

Greg blinked. Then frowned. Mycroft hurried on, ‘For my own part, and to be more honest than is perhaps wise in these circumstances, but I feel I owe you that at least, I have observed that I am also beginning to harbour towards you a level of regard not entirely commensurate with friendship and which I believe, if left unchecked, would render you uncomfortable in my presence. As I would seek to avoid that outcome at all costs, I have deemed it necessary to occasionally curtail our social interactions to avoid any unnecessary awkwardness.’ The rush of words came to a halt and he took a breath.   

At the doorway, Greg stared at him unmoving for a moment, then slowly took a few more steps back into the room. He rubbed at his forehead as he said, carefully, ‘Mycroft, I’ve had a stressful day and some quality scotch, so I want to make sure I’m getting this. Did you just say that you are maybe starting to like me as more than a friend and you’re worried that’s going to make things awkward in terms of us staying friends? Did I get that right?’ 

Mycroft was holding himself very stiffly in place. ‘That is the essence of it, yes.’ 

‘Okay. Good. That’s good.’ Greg felt like he might have slipped a little into interrogation mode, but given who he was talking to, it wasn’t entirely unhelpful. ‘So, and again, just for clarity here, is the problem that you’re not happy about those feelings and you’d like to just stay friends, or is the problem that you’d like to act on those feelings but you’re worried about how that might be received?’  

Mycroft said, so quietly that Greg, despite straining to hear every word in the silent room, almost missed it. ‘The latter.’ 

Greg let out a breath. ‘That’s great.’ He felt himself start to smile. ‘that’s..... yeah. That’s great.’ 

‘You’re not – offended? 

Greg stared.  _‘Offended_ ? You – _Mycroft bloody Holmes_  – just said you fancy me. Sort of. I think. I’m so far from offended right now, I’m waving from the horizon. I mean, that’s the best news I’ve had all year.’ 

Mycroft blinked. ‘Ah. So. Is there a way to ascertain if our estimate of increased affection is mutual?’ 

‘Well, I’m still not entirely clear what you’re talking about, but I think you should just let me kiss you.’ 

‘I’m sorry?’ 

‘You should let me kiss you.’ 

Mycroft swallowed. ‘What, er, what would be the rationale behind that suggestion?’ 

‘Well, you think you fancy me. I think I fancy you. If we kiss, then we’ll get a fair idea if we’re right. If it’s a good kiss, then we can decide where we go from here. If it’s not, then we’ll have got it out of our systems, and can go back to being mates. How does that sound?’ Greg tried to grin encouragingly at Mycroft, but stopped, on the grounds that it was probably making him look like a lunatic. His heart was trying to beat its way into his throat.  

Mycroft licked his lips before responding, and Greg’s heart, which had shown such an interest in proceedings up to now, stuttered to a halt.  

‘That sounds like a  - reasonable proposition.’ 

Greg’s heart abruptly restarted and attempted a somersault. He said, with a great deal more confidence than he felt. ‘Fantastic. In that case -’ 

He walked back to the sofa, and stood in front of Mycroft, close enough that he could almost feel the other man’s body heat. Mycroft didn’t move. ‘-I think there’s no time like the present. What do you say?’ 

In response, Mycroft nodded, almost imperceptibly and leaned towards him. Greg didn’t need any more encouragement. He raised a hand that wasn’t entirely steady to Mycroft’s face, drew it closer, and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s. And for a few, suspended seconds, that’s all it was. Just a gentle press of lips as Greg’s pulse accelerated like he was running for his life, and he felt himself start to sweat. Until Mycroft made a noise that was one part frustration, one part desperation, and one part unbridled lust. He slid one arm around Greg’s waist and moved the other to card, none too gently, through Greg’s hair, and used the two points of contact to close what little distance remained between them until the length of him was pressed against Greg. The sudden contact made Greg gasp into his mouth and Mycroft took advantage of the opening to deepen their kiss, using his hand in Greg’s hair to ensure maximum contact, and the kiss that Greg had started positively chaste was fast becoming arousing as hell.  

Then Mycroft did something with his tongue that made Greg go almost weak at the knees. One small neglected part of his brain marvelled that someone that spent so much time in politics could be such an unbelievable kisser, as the only other part that wasn’t entirely absorbed with the concept of  _more, now_ , addressed itself to the problem of potentially falling should such a thing – as seemed likely – happen again, and resolved it by shoving Mycroft up against the nearest substantial solid surface, in this case, the wall nearest the fireplace.  

Mycroft, still kissing him like he was the only source of oxygen in the room, signalled his approval of this change of position by wrapping a leg around Greg and using the leverage to press them closer. Even through the material of two pairs of trousers, there was a solid length against Greg’s own. The feel of it made Greg, already more turned on than he could remember being in years, moan aloud. If this kept up, he was going to last an embarrassingly short time. He exerted considerable pressure against the hand holding his head in place, and broke their kiss to groan, ‘Mycroft, we could slow down a bit -’ 

Mycroft, temporarily denied access to Greg’s mouth, was mouthing his way along Greg’s jawline, and god, if that wasn’t bloody marvellous too. He reached almost to Greg’s ear, and then, in a wrecked voice that Greg knew then and there would be the stuff of erotic dreams for the rest of his life, breathed, ‘Please, Gregory, touch me.  _Please_.’  

Greg made a noise that he would deny to his dying day was a whimper, got a hand between them and scrabbled to undo Mycroft’s trousers. If he was going to come as fast as a damn teenager, then Mycroft was coming first. As if reading his intent, Mycroft slipped a hand between them and undid Greg’s trousers so fast Greg barely had time to draw a breath of fevered anticipation before Mycroft’s hand was on him and he bucked uncontrollably into that welcome warmth. By this time he had managed to undo Mycroft’s trousers, and he closed firm fingers around Mycroft’s length, whilst rubbing his palm gently against the head, an action which caused a tremor through Mycroft’s entire body, and a gasp of  _‘Gregory’_ , which was immediately the most gratifying use of his name Greg had ever heard. 

Mycroft released his hold on Greg and moved his hand, guiding Greg’s hand around them both, and pushing into his grip. The feel of Mycroft’s length against his sent a fire through Greg’s system, and a trembling which meant he wouldn’t last much longer. They moved together, thrusting into Greg’s hand and into the space between them which barely existed, as Greg used Mycroft to keep himself upright, and Mycroft held him close enough that he could feel his every breath and heartbeat as they raced towards the inevitable.  

Mycroft’s arms were round his shoulders, his fingers gripping with enough force to bruise, pulling him so close that Mycroft’s breath was hot against his cheek with every exhale. He was gasping, a breathy litany of almost suppressed sighs and moans, seemingly forced out. That voice, in that state, was doing nothing for Greg’s own control and his hand stuttered as he worked them both. He gasped a warning, ‘Mycroft - ‘and at the sound Mycroft suddenly froze before coming with a quiet cry of ‘Greg, oh god,  _Gregory_.’ That was all that was needed to send Greg over the edge and he clung to Mycroft as he gentled them both through the aftershocks with a trembling hand.  

They leaned against each other in overwhelmed silence. Mycroft’s head had dropped to Greg’s shoulder. Greg could feel uneven, almost gasping breaths even as they began to slow. Mycroft's grip on his shoulders had not lessened, and Greg was covering him, almost entirely, one arm trapped between them and the other holding Mycroft to him, keeping him in place between Greg and the wall. Mycroft took a steadying, deeper breath. Greg waited for him to push away – he knew they would have to move, clean up, at some point. Instead Mycroft pressed his forehead gently, but noticeably, into Greg’s neck as his grip tightened almost infinitesimally and he made a partially suppressed noise that was almost a sigh. The sound made Greg’s heart clench, and he had to fight the urge to ruin the mood by saying something stupid like ‘Hey handsome, are you okay?’ He doubted Mycroft would appreciate Greg playing the concerned boyfriend, and ‘Do you know how utterly, incomparably incredible you are?’ was equally as unlikely to meet with favour. He settled for drawing Mycroft even closer against him, damp patch be dammed, and rubbing gentle circles against his back.  

Greg had no idea how long they stood there, but he knew, as Mycroft stirred against him, that it wasn’t long enough. Holding a vulnerable Mycroft Holmes was a task he would happily perform until his dying day.  

As Mycroft raised his head, Greg drew back slightly to give him space. Mycroft said, not quite meeting his eyes, in a voice that was still not steady, ‘There is a bathroom, second door across the hall.’ 

Greg said, ‘Yeah, I suppose I had better - ‘ Unable to resist, he used his free hand to tease some of Mycroft’s hair back into its usual carefully defined style. Mycroft looked at him in surprise, and something in his face made Greg’s voice bypass his brain’s usual filtering system and he said sincerely, ‘God you’re gorgeous.’  

Greg felt a blush creeping over his already reddened cheeks as Mycroft ducked his head, murmured, ‘If you wouldn’t mind - ‘ as he gestured towards the door.  

Greg found the bathroom with no trouble, and did his best with the mess of his trousers, and the lower half of his shirt, but his jacket and coat were going to be doing the lion’s share of the disguising work on his trip home, there was no doubt about that. As he worked, he felt a thrill of unbelief that the events of the last few minutes had actually happened. He had just – with  _Mycroft_ , of all people -  

As his heart slowed, and higher brain functions began to kick back in, Greg wondered if he had, in fact, made the greatest showing. He’d had a chance to have sex with Mycroft Holmes and what he’d actually done was shove him up against a wall and rut like a randy idiot. He stared at the man in the mirror with a sinking heart. Okay, what he needed to do next was make sure he got another chance. Ask Mycroft out. Take him to dinner. Do the whole thing properly. It wasn’t like he’d come here tonight planning anything. And planning would be better. Would be required, in fact. He hadn’t had sex with a man since before his marriage, and if Mycroft wanted to take things further, well, as great as that had been, he hoped they would be able to take things a bit slower.  

Even Greg’s cheating ex, when her affair – okay, affairs - had come out and their marriage had imploded in bitter recriminations, had had the grace to say, ‘It’s not the sex, Greg, you’re great in bed, but if you’re never here, that doesn’t count for a lot, you know?’ Greg thought as he straightened his shirt that he hadn’t exactly been great tonight, but given another chance, he could be. Slightly cheered at the thought, he headed back to the living room.  

When he entered, he stopped dead in surprise. Mycroft was standing in the centre of the room, looking –  _how the_ **_hell_ ** _did he do that?_  - immaculate. He had rebuttoned his waistcoat, and donned his jacket, which was also firmly buttoned. And his hair was back in place. Greg stared for a few seconds, and even before Mycroft opened his mouth he knew, with a horrible, creeping, certainty, that he was looking at the man who chaired meetings of the most influential people in the country and told them their business. Not the man who had, minutes before, clung to Greg like he was the only lifeline in a boundless sea.  

Mycroft said calmly, ‘Ah. Detective Inspector. Thank you for a most – pleasant – evening, but I won’t detain you any further. I’m sure you have better things to be doing.’ This was accompanied by a smile so unlike the gentle, open ones from earlier that Lestrade hated it on sight.  

He said, uncertainly, ‘Mycroft - ‘ 

Mycroft said smoothly, ‘I am informed that your sister and mother have refused the offer of a car home from the city airport. I understand you are collecting them yourself. You may want to leave fairly quickly, especially if you are - planning to call home first.’ 

Greg blinked.  _Christ, Mum and_ _Jac_ _. I nearly forgot._  He said, ‘ Er , yeah, I’ll - I’ll get on that.’ Almost unconsciously, he took a step into the room, towards Mycroft. He had no real aim in mind, just something – a touch, a kiss -  _something_ to crack the impenetrable façade he was now confronted with.  

Mycroft didn’t actually move in any perceptible way, but his body language stiffened so intensely Greg stopped, mid stride. He stared hopelessly at Mycroft as a few endless seconds ticked by. Mycroft’s expression didn’t alter at all.  

Greg said, ‘Right. I’ll - er – I'll go then.’ 

Still Mycroft made no move. Greg turned and walked slowly out.  

* 

The walk back to his car seemed to take forever. The thought that he’d maybe just lost a friend, the most incredible person he’d ever known, who’d become, somehow, somewhere, more important than he’d ever realised, haunted him all the way back to his flat. And there was no one else to blame. Just randy Greg Lestrade and his apparent total inability to control himself.  By the time he showered and got back to his car, his devastation was slipping towards anger. What the hell had that been about? He would have been happy with a kiss – it had been  _ Mycroft  _ who had pushed things on, and then Mycroft who had got cold feet when Greg had been happily planning their next date. God he’d been  _ stupid _ . Why had he even entertained the notion that someone like Mycroft would want him as a partner? Clearly, his place was just as a friend. Or, if Mycroft was feeling generous, a fuck buddy. The thought made his heart clench. 

Christ, it wasn’t even like he was in position to be choosy about partners. They hadn’t exactly been beating his door down since his marriage ended. His working hours, and if he was honest, overall enthusiasm, had ended what few brief potential partners there had been. Maybe ten years ago the thought of occasional, no strings attached, sex would have been ideal. Even now it wouldn’t be exactly a hardship, but it just wouldn’t be enough. Not anymore. Not with Mycroft. Mycroft was – Mycroft deserved better, and Greg realised with a sinking heart that he wanted to be the one to give it to him. Wanted to be more than a friend, more than a fuck buddy, wanted to be Mycroft’s  _ other _ . His partner, his source of support in that impossible, scary world he navigated every day. But it wasn’t going to happen. That much was clear. 

So maybe keeping away from Mycroft for a while would be for the best. As he waited by the barrier in London City Airport, Greg had made his mind up. He was going to give Mycroft all the space  he  apparently wanted. For Mycroft, and most of all, for his own sanity. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally in this Sherlock fic - some Sherlock!

The next day, Greg wondered, not for the first time, if the criminals of London went about their business with the aim of being as inconvenient as possible to him personally. It wasn’t like he actually  _wanted_ any crime to take place, certainly didn’t want anyone to get murdered, but experience showed it was going to happen anyway, so Lestrade wondered bitterly why it couldn’t happen today when he was badly in need of distraction from the utter, pathetic wreck of his personal life. From Mycroft, there had been no sign at all, not that Greg had expected anything. His position, in his pointed farewell and frozen body language, had been quite clear.  

As the day dragged on, Greg wondered if it was possible to feel heartbroken over a relationship that hadn’t actually happened. And if that was the most pathetic thought he’d ever had. Still, at least his day had improved work-wise, a thought that lasted until he returned to his office to find Sherlock in it, with John in the visitor’s chair, watching as Sherlock rummaged through Greg’s case files.  

John said apologetically as he entered, 'Donovan said we could wait in here.’ 

‘Did she.’ Greg threw his coat at the rack. ‘I wonder what I've done to upset her.’  

‘I don’t think it was that, so much as she didn’t appreciate Sherlock deducing her desk.’  

Sherlock stood up. ‘The case file from Tuesday isn’t here. And I don’t have any children with me so you can give it to me now.’ 

Greg sighed. They hadn’t actually been getting anywhere with it, and it might benefit from Sherlock’s eye. He said, ‘It’s in my desk. Hello, how are you, I'm fine, good to see you, etcetera.’ 

Sherlock had rounded the desk. ‘You’ve installed a lock.’ 

Greg said mildly, ‘I wonder why. Hold on, I’ll get the key.’ 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t bother.’ From somewhere on his person he produced a pick, and bent to the lock.  

John said, ‘He likes the practice.’ 

Greg said, as he moved his chair away from Sherlock and sat down, ‘Please don’t tell me what else he practices on. I don’t want to know.’ 

John grinned. ‘You still good for drinks after work on Thursday? We’ve missed a few weeks.’ 

‘God yeah, we have, sorry. Yeah, that’d be great.’ This is what I need, Greg thought, more time with friends. Regular friends. Not – Mycroft friends.  

There was a click and a satisfied hum from the direction of his desk drawer.  

John said, ‘Great, we can catch up.’ 

Sherlock, flicking through the contents of Greg’s drawer, said, ‘No need. His latest romantic liaison has dumped him and he is feeling sorry for himself. Do keep up, John.’ 

‘Drop dead Sherlock.’ Greg snapped, with no real heat. He couldn’t face hostilities with another Holmes so soon. 

John said, ‘Don’t give him ideas.’  

Sherlock was frowning at Greg’s case file. ‘It’s hardly my fault he has terrible judgement when it comes to sexual partners. As if his serially cheating ex-wife wasn’t enough, he’s now moved on to emotionally unavailable men.’ 

John shot Greg a raised eyebrow even as he said irritably, ‘Sherlock. We’ve talked about the concept of privacy as it relates to friends.’ 

Sherlock turned a few pages violently. ‘Yes, and as  _I’ve_  said, people who we consider friends should be protected from their own stupidity. I mean, take this man of Greg’s.’ 

Greg felt a frisson of panic. ‘No, really Sherlock, let’s not.’ He shot John a look of appeal. 

Sherlock glanced up. ‘There’s no need to worry, I've known you fancy men for ages and John is very open minded.’ He looked over at John. ‘You see? Sensitivity. Easy.’ He turned back to Lestrade too quickly to catch John’s eye roll.  

‘Now if I was the insensitive individual John occasionally accuses me of being, I would allow you to sit here and fondly imagine that in spite of recent events you have a future with this man. Well, as your  _friend_ , I can tell you that you are out of your league, socially, economically and intellectually, and you should just forget him right now and cheer up. I have to say; I have totally mastered this sensitive friend thing.’ He looked to John. ‘You made it sound  _hard_.’ 

John glanced apologetically at Greg as Sherlock returned to the case file. ‘Yeah, mate, you’ve really nailed it.’ 

Greg said, not entirely managing to keep the bitterness from his voice, ‘Well it is nice to have my inferiority so firmly established. I mean, I wasn't imagining much of a future as it happens, but thanks for confirming it.’ Sherlock opened his mouth. Greg added quickly, ‘You  _really_ don't need to tell me how you knew any of that.’ 

Sherlock said absently, still turning pages, ‘Wasn’t going to. But as a starter, you might want to wash that tie before wearing it again. The only person I know who wears cologne that absurdly expensive is My-‘  

Sherlock stopped abruptly. His head snapped up and he stared at Greg. Greg watched with the sense of seeing a slow-motion car crash as the pieces fell together, and Sherlock’s disbelieving look changed to abject dismay. ‘You had sex with  _Mycroft_?’ 

They stared at each other in mutual frozen horror for a few long seconds before John said, in the tone of a man not able to quite believe the turn his afternoon had taken, ‘Sherlock, this is absolutely none of our business.’ 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t be stupid John, Lestrade is being interesting for once. Don’t interfere.’ 

His gaze on Lestrade had slipped from horrified to curious. ‘Why would  _Mycroft_ sleep with  _you_?’ 

Greg found his voice. Swallowing round the lump in his throat, he said, ‘John’s right, it’s none of your business.’ 

‘Don’t be absurd. My brother does nothing without a good reason, we have to figure out what he’s up to.’ 

John said, ‘Sherlock, for god’s sake, maybe he just wanted to get laid!’ 

‘And he picked  _Lestrade_?’ 

Greg put his head in his hands. He had thought the day couldn’t get any worse. Why he had thought that, when he hadn’t seen Sherlock yet, he couldn’t now imagine. 

‘Besides, you are proceeding from a false assumption.’ Sherlock was pacing now.  ‘Normal people “just get laid”. For my brother, sex is just another tool to manipulate people. And not one he uses very often. So why now? Why Lestrade? He has no power, no influence. Certainly not next to Mycroft. He’s economically underwhelmed, average looking, running to fat actually -'  

Greg looked up, ‘Hey!’ At the same time as John snapped ‘Sherlock!’ 

‘He’s a middle aged, unambitious divorcee, with minimal prospects –‘ 

John said firmly, ‘Sherlock, that’s  _enough_  –‘ 

‘- so maybe it’s not actually to do with Lestrade at all. Maybe it’s something to do with me. Manipulating you to get to me. But why now, after all this time? He’s never been interested in you before. Never even  _kidnapped_ you, so why -’ 

Greg felt something inside him snap. He stood. ‘You know what, Sherlock, you‘re right. I’m not in Mycroft’s league. And I may not be a Holmes. But I can tell when someone’s into me. Do I know Mycroft’s motives? No, I don’t. But I do know it wasn’t about power, or influence, or control. It wasn’t even, hard as this might be for you to believe, about  _you_ . Maybe John’s right. Maybe he did just want a shag, and I was there. And you know what? If he asked me again,  i  would.’ Greg realised the truth of this only as he said it, and ploughed on ,  ‘Because I like your brother. He’s the smartest  guy  in any room. Yes, even one with you in it. He’s funny, he’s kind, he cares – he  _does_ , Sherlock, whatever you might say – and he can wear a goddamn suit better than anyone I’ve ever met. Now sod off. Take the goddamn case file, you can bring it back tomorrow. Just get lost.’ 

The silence that followed this speech was profound. Even John stared at him in momentary shock before tugging Sherlock‘s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ He threw Greg another apologetic glance as they left. ‘Thursday?’ 

Greg swallowed, and his voice was still unsteady. ‘Yeah. Cheers.’ 

They left, John still apologetic, Sherlock looking mutinous, but clutching the case file.  

* 

Anthea was at her desk early that morning. Even earlier than actual work required, particularly on a Saturday. Officially, because her workload demanded such exceptional hours. Unofficially, she’d been awake and ready an hour before her alarm, such was her curiosity to see her boss and deduce what had happened the night before. Oh, Mycroft would be all professional demeanour, she had no doubt. He wouldn’t want to advertise any positive developments in his personal life. But equally, she’d worked with him long enough to read his smallest expressions and subtlest body language. She was pretty sure she’d be able to figure out what had happened when Greg Lestrade had dropped in unannounced. And he had, she knew. Not least because she had tracked his rapid progress from Mycroft’s office to Mycroft’s door via CCTV before she herself had left for the day.  

Which was why she was relatively unconcerned when Mycroft’s usual time of arrival came and went. In fact, she allowed herself the luxury of speculating that perhaps things had gone even better than she hoped and Lestrade had even stayed the night. Perhaps was there still. She hummed to herself as opened the door to Mycroft’s office. She hadn’t been expecting things to progress that fast, but equally she could have cut their recent chemistry with a knife so - 

She stopped on the threshold. Mycroft was behind his desk, flicking through a briefing paper she had left there the previous day. There was no way he had arrived after her, which meant he had been sat there since at least 5.30am. The blinds of the office were drawn, meaning the dull morning light was only creeping round the edges and the only significant light in the office was the desk lamp, which was illuminating only the papers Mycroft was reading and casting his face into alternating deep shadows and harsh light, and the screen of his laptop, set to one side.  

He looked up at her entrance. His face was as studied a portrait of non-expression as he’d ever used with her.  

‘Ah. Anthea. Could you send the latest Cadogan and Phoenix briefing papers to my laptop. And I need to speak to GCHQ. The director if you can, but if not, his deputy will do. This morning, please.’ He returned to gaze to his paper.  

Anthea stood frozen for a few long seconds, before turning and walking back to her desk, mind whirling even as she did as requested. This was bad. Mycroft looked like he’d been subjected to sleep deprivation. And he was talking to her in the tight, formal way he used with people he wished to particularly discourage from further contact. He’d been in the office at least three hours without so much as requesting a coffee. That in itself was almost unheard of. She could only hope the day would bring an improvement, or at least an opportunity to figure out what the hell had happened last night. It had to be to do with Lestrade. He was the only variation in Mycroft’s routine. It wasn’t work related; she was sure. Anything important enough to disturb Mycroft to this extent would have either come past her already, or been communicated to her by Mycroft. It was just how they worked. They were a team, and that level of trust had been hard-earned. She experienced a frisson of concern that she had overstepped and endangered it, then pushed the thought to the back of her mind, returning to the subject of Lestrade even as she exchanged pleasantries with the Executive Assistant at GCHQ. Could he have done something – inappropriate? Even the thought made her want to track him down and beat him to within an inch of his life. But there was no way –  _none_ – that she would have deliberately put him in Mycroft’s path without being certain of his character. And her judgement on such issues had been proven sound on multiple occasions. She still believed it was accurate.  So  what the  _hell_ had gone on?  

The day passed in the painful atmosphere of strain with no answers. Mycroft was efficient to the point of aggression, piling through his work with even more than his usual speed. Even so, it didn’t escape Anthea’s attention that he only drank what she placed in front of him and barely ate at all. This was usually something she would cheerfully nag him about, but as his attitude towards her hadn’t thawed in the slightest, she merely removed his barely touched lunch without comment.  

* 

Greg slammed back into his darkened office, and threw his coat over the visitor's chair. One last report then this whole shitty day would be over.  

As he rounded the desk, a voice from the corner said, ‘I brought your case file.’ 

Greg jumped so hard his knee hit the corner of the desk and he rubbed it as he swore. ‘Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what are you doing sitting in the bloody dark? You nearly gave me a heart attack.’ 

‘I was _thinking_.’ 

Greg sighed. ‘Well that can’t be good.’ He sat. ‘Alright. What is it?’ He slipped the file from the corner of his desk back into pending and waited.  

‘Get some of your minions to look again into the business partners investments. Properly, this time, or get some of Mycroft’s people to do it. He would, if you asked.’ 

Greg said shortly, ‘Right, thanks. I'll get someone on it, first thing Monday. That it?’ 

‘Donovan seems to think it’s the wife. It isn’t. She’s too obvious. It’s definitely the partner.’ 

‘Noted.’ 

‘You’d think Donovan would have noticed, the time she’s spent on this. Honestly, -’ 

‘Sherlock,’ Greg said tightly, ‘I appreciate your input as always, but if there’s nothing else -.’ 

The detective shifted uncomfortably but made no move to rise.  

Greg sighed. ‘Sherlock, if this is about Mycroft, I meant what I -’ 

‘He likes you.’ 

Greg stopped. ‘What?’ 

‘I’ve been through every other possible explanation, and none of them fit. This one doesn’t either, but John assures me it’s possible, and he is occasionally right.’ 

‘Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?’ 

‘Mycroft. He didn’t sleep with you to manipulate you, or to get at me. He did it because –’ Sherlock’s voice took on a tone of disbelief ‘– he  _wanted_ to.’ 

Greg ran a hand across his face. He was too tired for this crap. ‘Christ almighty Sherlock, of course he wanted to. I know you like to act like he’s some kind of unfeeling automaton, but everyone – assuming they like sex at all – likes to get laid sometimes, even Mycroft. And now we’ve established that, can we please god never have this conversation again?’ 

‘No.’ Sherlock stood, waving a hand irritably, ‘No, no, no! That’s what John said and you are  _both wrong_ . Mycroft doesn’t  _have_ to do anything. He is  _all about control_ . Rest assured, if there was a way to live without eating or  sleeping  he would do it. He doesn’t do things on a whim. He doesn’t get swept away in a _romantic moment_.’ The derisiveness of Sherlock’s tone gave extra credence to this statement. ‘There really is only one explanation. He had sex with you because he has some kind of - _feeling_ - that goes beyond his usual disinterest in humanity at large. You are – somehow –  _interesting_ to him. He  _likes_ you.’ 

Greg felt a tiny frisson of hope claw it’s way into his gut. If anyone else had said it, he’d be doubtful, but since this was Sherlock, he said carefully, ‘Well, he’s hiding it well. He hasn’t so much as spoken to me since.’ 

Sherlock scoffed. ‘Well of course he hasn’t. He’s in shock. He’s not used to liking people. Probably has no idea what to do next.’ 

Greg swallowed. ‘So, do you think – I mean – should I call him? No. Bit forward, maybe a text? Just casual?’ 

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. ‘Lestrade, are you insane? Did you hear  _nothing_ I just said? Mycroft Holmes, my brother, the British Government, the man who hid my sister from her family for almost her entire life, who  faked  my death, who manipulates entire governments the way you and I breathe, is  _interested_ in you. This isn’t good news, Lestrade, this is a  _warning_ . No, you bloody well shouldn’t call him, you utter  _imbecile_ , you should flee the country.’ 

* 

As the evening drew on, with no sign of Mycroft even noticing, Anthea left it as long as she reasonably could then slipped back into his office. Mycroft didn’t acknowledge her presence. After a few moments she said quietly, ‘Will that be all for today, sir?’  

Without looking at her, Mycroft said, ‘Sit down Anthea, please.’  

Anthea hesitated for the merest fraction of a second, then did as requested, even as her heart gave a pre-emptive lurch. After a moment, Mycroft sighed, set aside his laptop and looked her in the eye for the first time that day. Despite her trepidation at what this conversation might bring, Anthea had never wanted to hug him so much in their entire acquaintance. Nevertheless, she waited, keeping her face in her neutral, polite expression, perfected over years of use.  

Mycroft said tiredly, ‘You have been manipulating my schedule to bring me into contact with Gr–’ he stopped abruptly and continued, ‘with a colleague from the police service. And last night, you gave him my home address.’ His tone was almost brutally clipped. ‘May I ask why?’ 

Anthea’s heart sank, but she looked Mycroft in the eye and said simply, ‘I noticed that he liked you. I thought there might be – relationship potential.’ 

‘I see.’ Mycroft’s tone hadn’t changed. ‘And so – in spite of previous conversations on this topic in which I expressed my opinion: acting, in fact, against my explicitly stated wishes on the subject, you manipulated my work life to add an  _entirely_ unnecessary complication to a workload which I know we can both agree is already exhausting, and then you felt the need to interfere in my personal life to the extent that you  _sent him to my house_.’ Mycroft was trying to keep his glacial mask in place, but barely restrained emotion suffused his tone as he finished speaking, to the extent that Anthea felt herself flinch.  

Anthea’s first instinct was to defend herself. Look at you, she thought, hopelessly. You need someone. You can’t be on your own forever. But the summation was accurate, and Anthea didn’t want to upset Mycroft any further. She sat tensely as he gathered himself, and waited.  

Mycroft no longer sounded angry, but simply exhausted. His voice was hollow as he said, ‘Anthea, you are an exceptional assistant. We work very well together and I am lucky to have you. I acknowledge and appreciate your concern for my wellbeing. But if you do anything like this again, I will let you go. Is that clear?’   

Anthea’s heart was in her throat. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.  

Mycroft turned back to his papers. After a few seconds, she stood and walked out. 

* 

Anthea grabbed her bag and laptop, and left as quickly as possible. Her usual car was at the kerb and she sank against its upholstery as the car slid into traffic. Minutes went by as she stared out of the window. After ten, she leaned forward and tapped the glass separating herself from the driver. Frank looked in the mirror in surprise. ‘Not straight home tonight, ma'am?’ 

She said, and her voice wasn’t quite as certain as usual, ‘No, Frank, would you mind if we made a stop?’ She gave him the address and he took the next turn as she settled back into her seat.  

* 

Greg Lestrade stared at the contents of his fridge in disapproval. If there was one thing he missed from being in a long term relationship – one of many, if he was honest – it was the idea that someone else occasionally took responsibility for the buying of food. Even in his forties, he never seemed to be able to remember to do it with any regularity, or that he had it, which led inevitably to either a fridge full of rotting food he’d never got round to eating after too many late nights at the office had led to too much fast food, or, like now, the fridge being basically empty.  

After his conversation with Sherlock, he'd completely forgotten about the necessity to buy himself dinner. Having informed Lestrade of his best course of action, Sherlock had swept out, irritated at Lestrade’s refusal to acknowledge Mycroft’s potential interest as A Very Bad Thing. He was probably back at Baker Street now, haranguing John about the stupidity of people who didn’t follow Sherlock’s every suggestion. Where Watson got his patience from, Greg had no idea.  

But for once, Sherlock’s opinion was irrelevant. Mycroft himself had made the position clear, and Greg wasn’t about to expose himself for another emotional kicking on the basis of Sherlock’s hunch about Mycroft’s motives. The subject of Mycroft was probably one of the few in the world in which Sherlock’s opinion could not be entirely relied upon.  

He weighed his available options: drag himself out to the late-night supermarket, or order something in and shop tomorrow. Well, that was a no brainer. He grabbed a menu out of the takeout drawer and phoned through his usual order. Whilst he waited, he congratulated himself on at least having alcohol in the house. It was terrible alcohol, to be fair, and the reason it was left was obviously that he’d previous decided that drinking anything else at all was preferable to the seediest looking bottle of wine on the block, but beggars couldn’t be choosers on this occasion, and he was  desperate, so he opened it.  

Twenty-five minutes later he was flicking through available TV channels and still trying to convince himself about the acceptability of the wine, when the buzzer sounded. His stomach growled approval and he jumped up to hit the button to unlock the main door downstairs, opened the front door to his flat, and hurried to the kitchen to grab a plate and cutlery. That was an impressive turn of speed from his local takeout at the weekend. He heard a noise in the hall and shouted, ‘Come through.’ He grabbed his wallet for a tip and hurried out of the kitchen before stopping dead at the sight in his living room.  

‘Good evening, Detective Inspector.’ 

Greg blurted, ‘Anthea?! What are you -? I mean, sorry, but I wasn’t expecting -’ 

She said dryly, ‘Yes, I figured that when you invited me in so precipitously. I’m not interrupting anything, I hope? A date, perhaps?’ 

Greg stared. ‘Takeout.’ 

She appeared to relax infinitesimally. ‘Ah. Then I will be brief. Far be it from me to keep you from your dinner.’ This was accompanied with a slightly forced smile.  

Greg said awkwardly, ‘Look, if this is about Mycroft, I don’t think - ‘ 

She said quickly, ‘He doesn’t know I’m here. I - ‘ She shifted awkwardly, and Lestrade noticed for the first time what she looked pale, and tense. It was the first time he’d seen her look anything other than completely unflappable, and Greg frowned.  

‘Are you okay? Is Mycroft okay?’ 

She laughed, a bitter little sound, and said, 'Just about. And not really. May I sit down?’ 

Greg’s innate politeness warred with the desire to say no. Whatever this was, it almost certainly wasn't going to improve his mood. He said reluctantly, ‘Yeah. Okay.’  

She sat, and began, ‘Greg - may I still call you Greg?’  

He nodded, and her eyes fell on the glass of wine on his coffee table. ‘Greg, I know I’m imposing, but is there any more of that?’ 

Greg opened his mouth to comment on the taste, then wordlessly fetched a glass, poured the wine and handed it to her. She downed half of it before the taste registered. In spite of himself, and the tension she had brought with her, Greg found himself suppressing a smile as her face cycled through anxious, to disbelieving, to horrified. For a long moment he thought she was going to spit it out. She swallowed forcibly and then said, ‘What. Was. That?’  

Greg said, ‘Chateau Peckham High Road. It’s what happens when you drop in on strange men without notice and drink their wine.’ 

Her tablet had appeared from nowhere, and she tapped out a message before looking up at him. ‘I am suitably chastened, Greg, I assure you.’ 

Greg dropped into the seat opposite her. ‘Look, I don’t want to sound unwelcoming, but why are you here?’  

Some of the tension crept back into her expression. ‘I need to start by saying that I am well aware that this is very much none of my business, and you are more than within your rights to tell me nothing and send me away with the proverbial flea. In fact, I fully expect you to do just that.’  

She paused. Greg said guardedly, ‘If this is going where I think it is, I’m sure I will. But carry on.’  

She didn't reply immediately, in favour of looking back in distain at the wine. Then utterly to his surprise, she kicked off her heels, and drew her legs up until she was sitting cross legged on his couch, ignoring the wrinkles in what was a clearly expensive trouser suit. She glared at the bottle as she fiddled absently with the hem of her suit jacket. Just as Lestrade was about to prompt her, there was a knock at his flat door. She smiled encouragingly at him and he opened it to an elderly man in a chauffeur's uniform, who presented Greg with a bottle with a brief, ‘Your wine, sir.’ before disappearing down the stairs. Greg spared a brief moment to wonder how he’d got in, before returning to the living room and waving the bottle at Anthea in a vaguely accusatory manner.  

She merely said, ‘Please tell me you have a corkscrew.’  

Greg spared her a glance before retrieving it from the kitchen and opening the bottle. Even the smell was amazing. He said, ‘Okay, you’re winning me over now. And you just happened to have this in the car?’ 

She smiled. ‘Yes, actually. Mr Holmes is –’ a distressed look crossed her face before she finished more slowly ‘– very particular about wine.’ 

Greg looked at her, poured them both a large glass, and said ‘Anthea, what is going on?’ 

She said quietly, ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ On his expression, she said abruptly, ‘There’s something wrong with Mr Holmes - with Mycroft. He was fine yesterday, but this morning –’ she broke off, ‘he’s been quiet all day. And not just quiet – almost  _hostile_ . He’s never like that with me.  _Never_. He’s hasn’t slept, he’s not eating. It’s not work, I’d know if it was. I know I overstepped, but – please, Greg, I’m not asking you to kiss and tell, but as I’m the one that sent you there, can you at least tell me how things ended?’  

Greg took a breath. He said, ‘When you say you overstepped - ?’ 

She rested her head on the back of his couch and addressed the ceiling. ‘I noticed he was different around you. I noticed you liked him. I started – putting you in each other’s way.’  

Greg stared. ‘You - were trying to set me up? With  _Mycroft_?’ 

She nodded.  

Greg blinked. ‘Wait. So, shadowing the Chief Super-? 

‘Me.’ 

‘That do at the Landmark?’  

‘Also me.’  

‘How the  _hell_ did you get Whitchurch to give me that invite?’ A tiny, devious smile crossed Anthea’s face. Greg carried on, ‘D’you know what, never mind, not relevant. Mycroft having good and valid reasons to stop by my office?’  

‘Still me.’  

‘And yesterday.’  

‘Very definitely me. Helped by international terrorism. And there’s a sentence I don’t use often.’   

Greg felt a stab of disappointment. It must have shown on his face because she said gently, ‘I just got him in the room, Greg. You kept him there. Every time. Do you think he spends that much time with  _anyone_ else?’ 

Greg said bitterly, ‘Well you can stop ‘over stepping’ now. He won’t be spending any more time with me, that was clear enough.’ 

She was watching him closely. He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘Anthea, I know you’re concerned, and so am I, but you said it yourself – I don’t kiss and tell.’  

She watched him for a moment longer, obviously turning something over in her head. She said, after a while, ‘Can I tell you something? I need to know it won’t go any further.’  

‘About Mycroft?’ She nodded. Greg frowned.  

She leaned towards him and said earnestly, ‘Greg, I love my job. I consider being employed by Mycroft Holmes the best thing that ever happened to me. He is a great man, an exceptional boss, and - I hope - a friend. He is also,’ she paused, picking her words, ‘a  _charge_ . I look after him. Because he forgets to look after himself. He’d work himself into the ground if there wasn’t someone to stop him. He expects the little things to simply  _appear_ . He needs them to, so he can dedicate all the considerable mental power he has, to more important things. And he does. Because I, and the rest of his staff, make everything else happen.  And in return, the greatest experiences of my life have been at his side. He keeps this country running. And as safe as possible. Against  _unbelievable_ opposition, even from our own side. He takes every failure personally. He feels  _every single one_ . And after years and years of this, he is tired. I  _know_ he’s tired. And I think, he’s also lonely. And he deserves to  _not_ be. Yes, I overstepped, and now he resents me for it. My job is on the line just being here. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I thought for one second there was a chance that he could have what other people take for granted. Just – someone to come home to. I was really hoping that someone might be you.’  

She stopped. Greg swallowed around a lump in his throat. After a pause, he said, ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it isn’t. For what it’s worth, I would have liked it to be me too.’  

She said gently, ‘And there’s no hope it could be? None at all?’ 

Greg looked at her earnest expression. He finished his glass and poured another, then emptied the rest of the bottle into Anthea’s glass before downing half of his new glass. ‘This doesn’t go any further.’  

She nodded.  

Greg ran his hand through his hair and shifted uncomfortably, and began to sketch the events of the night before. As he spoke, Anthea changed position to hug her knees to her chest and watch him over the top of them. It made her look younger, less intimidating. He got to ‘ - and I just thought, that was the third time it had happened. We’d be getting on, really well, then –’ he made a slicing motion with his hand ‘– barriers down, you know?’ Anthea nodded emphatically. ‘So I called him on it. Asked what was going on. What I was doing wrong.’  

He stopped. She said, rapt, ‘And what did he say?’ 

‘He did that thing. You know?’ He passed a hand in front of his face and dropped his voice. 'Diplomat face. You must have seen it.’  

‘Yes,  _many_ times. I’m - surprised he’d do it to you though.’ 

Greg nodded. ‘Me too. So I thought, well, that’s it, you know? And I went to leave.’ 

Anthea’s face tightened. Greg continued, ‘Only he called me back, and he was –  _different_. He said he –’ he sighed and added quickly ‘ -he said he had feelings for me and was worried it might ruin our friendship if he acted on them.’ 

‘He  _said_ that?’ Anthea’s face had lit up. 

‘Well, not exactly in those words.’ 

‘Ah. He spun it out a bit?’ 

‘Did he ever. I had to ask for clarification. But that was the definite gist.’ 

‘And?’ 

Greg took a breath, ‘And - I said I liked him too.’ He stopped.  

‘Oh, for God’s sake Greg –  _and_?’ 

Greg muttered quickly, ‘And he asked what we should do next and I suggested I should kiss him.’  

When he risked a look up, Anthea was smiling. She said, ‘I knew I wasn’t wrong about you.’  

‘Yeah, well I think you might have been because it’s downhill from there.’  

Her face fell. He said, ‘Look, I’m not going to spell it out for you but -’ he downed the rest of the wine in the hopes that Anthea would attribute his blush to alcohol.  

She said anxiously, not a question. ‘It - went badly.’ 

Greg slammed his glass down.  _‘No_ . No it bloody didn’t. I haven’t felt like that in years – it was incredible.’ He knew his face was red but he didn’t care. ‘And I  _know_ it was good for him too, I mean, Christ, when you’re with someone, there are bloody clues, you know? You don’t have to be a damn  _detective_. And he was -’ he stopped. There were some things he would never share, not with anyone. He felt, in the sudden silence, like he could feel Mycroft’s breath against his neck, his arms around Greg's shoulders, clinging to him like he was someone whose loss could not be borne.  

Anthea breathed quietly,  _‘Oh_.’  

Greg said, ‘And then I went to the bathroom and when I came back - ‘ he made the sweeping gesture in front of his face again. ‘Only worse. Not just practised diplomat.  _Pissed off_ practised diplomat. It was like he was on another planet. I couldn’t reach him and he didn’t want me to. So I left.’  

As Greg finished the buzzer sounded again from his hall. After a beat, he said, more casually than he felt, ‘I assume that’s really my takeaway this time, and not more wine.’ 

Anthea, face creased in thought, didn’t respond. Greg said, ‘Well that’s it, anyway. That’s what happened. We got carried away and he regrets it. So I’ll be persona non grata for a while.’ As he stood he added wistfully, ‘Not forever hopefully. I’d like to think we could still be friends. You know, eventually.’  

Greg grabbed the takeaway and brought it back into the living room, where Anthea hadn’t moved. He sighed internally. ‘Since you’re here, can I tempt you? It’s Chinese.’  

She looked up in surprise. ‘Oh, no thank you. And I think you’re wrong.’ 

Greg dumped the takeaway on the table, his appetite having taken a nosedive. ‘Wouldn’t bloody surprise me. About what?’  

‘Mycroft.’ Anthea unfolded herself from the sofa and leaned forward. ‘Greg, I don’t think he blanked you afterwards because he regretted it. At least not for the reasons you think. That’s just not him. In the circumstance you describe – having sex with someone and regretting it straight afterwards – which is already almost unbelievably atypical behaviour - there’s no way he’d have let you know it. He’d have been the perfect gentleman about it. Let you down gently.’ 

‘Maybe he thought that’s what he was doing?’ 

Anthea looked at him derisively. ‘Mr Holmes is a _consummate_ diplomat. If he wanted to let you down gently you’d be here mourning the great lost love of your life yet somehow feeling happy about it.’ 

Greg snapped in frustration, ‘Then why am I here, feeling like  _this_?’ 

Anthea said slowly, ‘Because I think he didn’t regret it. I think he liked it – liked  _you_ – a lot.’  

Greg stared at her in disbelief. ‘Well, he hid that  _amazingly_ well.’ 

‘No, Greg, he really didn’t.’ She sat forward again. ‘ _Think_ about it. When have you ever seen him upset? Scared? Angry?  _Anything_ other than the quintessential politician.’ 

Greg didn’t even have to think. ‘Around Sherlock. After Eurus. Once, talking about his parents.’ 

‘Yes. And what do those people have in common?’ 

Greg shrugged. ‘They’re his family. Of course he gets upset about them. He  _cares_ about them.’  

Anthea sat back with a smile.  

Greg stared at her, then said, ‘Oh come on. He doesn’t - ‘ 

Anthea interrupted gently, ‘I really think - he does.’  

After a moment Greg said, ‘Then - what the hell should I  _do_?’  


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for the long wait. This wasn't working at all, but after numerous re-edits I think it's post-able. Things are going to get worse before they get better though. Sorry about that. If it's any consolation the next chapter is almost written too...

Anthea took another sip of her wine as she thought. ‘The difficulty is that we’re dealing with _Mycroft_. I’m surprised it took him so long to notice what I was doing as it was. He’ll be alert to it now. Getting you both in the same room just won't happen if he doesn't want it to.’ 

Greg said tiredly, ‘Let’s assume he doesn’t want it to.’ 

Anthea sighed. ‘In that case, honestly, I think you should just go and talk to him. Tell him how you feel.’ She stopped and then said, ‘I mean – if that’s what you want. I’d understand if you felt – like perhaps it wasn’t worth the risk of another rejection.’ 

Her voice had taken on a slightly odd tone – not unlike what Lestrade had come to think of as Mycroft's diplomat voice. _Learning from the master_ , he thought.  

Imitating her tone, he said, ‘Is he worth the risk?’ 

She bit her lip over a slightly sad smile. ‘He really is.’ 

'Yeah.' Greg matched her smile. ‘That’s what I thought.’ 

She said absently, ‘We were in China, a few years ago. Negotiations were at a crucial stage. We were working round the clock, all hands on deck, you know the sort of thing.’ Lestrade nodded. ‘I received a message to say my dad had had a cardiac arrest. It didn’t look good. I knew Mycroft needed me. There wasn’t anything I could do for my dad. So I didn’t say anything.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t need to. I hadn’t been back in the room ten minutes before he was arranging a plane. Paid for it himself.’ 

She released a sigh. ‘He really cares, Greg.’ She stopped. ‘If you knew the trouble he has gone through for his brother–‘ her tone had sharpened and she stopped herself abruptly, shooting a quick glance at Greg. ‘He’s not alone in that, I realise.’ 

Greg said, ‘Well I’ve only had years of it. Mycroft’s had decades.’ He added feelingly, ‘But I can  _wholeheartedly_ sympathise.’  

‘Yes, exactly.’ 

‘But I’m not Sherlock. Slightly offended at the comparison, actually.’ 

She shot him a quelling glance. ‘No of course not, but, even with the best of intentions, you would represent – complication. In an already highly complicated life.’ 

‘So that’s why he blows hot and cold? He’d like to go out with me, but doesn’t want the complication?’ 

‘I think that’s – mostly it, yes. I think it’s certainly the reason he would give, if challenged.’  

 _‘_ _Mostly_ it.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Care to elaborate on mostly?’  

Anthea had drawn her legs underneath her again and resumed worrying the hem of her jacket. She stopped abruptly and eyed him seriously. ‘If I tell you something else, it goes no further, Greg. If I find out anyone else knows, I’ll know where it came from and I’ll be –  _unhappy_.’ 

‘Christ. Understood.’ 

‘We were abroad once, doesn’t matter where or why, but long story short, it was one of our relatively rare failures. There was nothing left for us to do but go home and lick our wounds. So we went to the airport, only to find, in the spirit of everything going entirely to shit, that our flight was grounded and we weren’t getting out for at least eight hours.  

‘Normally he takes every opportunity to work but on this occasion, we were both – dispirited. So I suggested we should leave off working, find the nearest nice bar and get drunk as hell. I didn’t think for one second he’d actually agree – I was just trying to distract him – but he did.’ 

Greg raised his eyebrows.  

‘Yeah, exactly. I’d been with him five years at that point and never seen him have more than the occasional quality scotch. But this time we found a good bar near the airport and worked our way through the expensive end of the drinks menu.’ 

She smiled at the recollection. ‘It was one of those relationship-solidifying evenings. Even in all the time we’d worked together, we’d never really opened up to each other. We're neither of us exactly the type. But as we got drunker we stopped talking work – although that was entertaining enough in itself.’ 

She added confidingly, ‘Get him tipsy sometime and ask him his opinion of any politician you don’t rate very highly. He’s brutal, and funny, and he has a wicked line in impersonations.’ 

On Greg’s face, she laughed. ‘I’m not even kidding. Get him drunk sometime, you won’t regret it.’ 

‘Anyway, we had hours to kill, and the drinks menu was long. We talked about our families. It was the first time he'd really  _talked_ about Sherlock, how worried he was, how much he tried to keep Sherlock’s troubles from their parents.‘ She glanced at Greg, and her gaze was suddenly almost fond, ‘This was before you, when Sherlock didn’t have anyone other than Mycroft who’d even give him the time of day.’  

‘Then we moved on to partners, or lack thereof. I’d just had a messy, awful breakup and was still feeling it. I told Mycroft something of what had happened, said I’d been stupid, and he actually smiled. Told me I'd been nowhere _near_ as stupid as he’d once been.  

‘Well, I couldn’t let that lie. Said I couldn’t imagine him being stupid in any circumstance. So he told me the circumstances. He tried to keep it light, he tried to amuse me at his own expense, but –‘ she broke off, sipped more wine, and started again. ‘He was in a relationship that began at university. Afterwards they went into business together, doing the same kind of thing Mycroft does now, but on a smaller scale. They built the business together, and it was doing really well – I mean, of course it was, Mycroft was running it. But his partner was the public face. The name over the door, if you like. Both metaphorically and legally. 

‘On their fifth anniversary, Mycroft booked them into a hotel for a romantic weekend away. Only when he arrived, his partner wasn’t there. Instead, the room was full of boxes of Mycroft’s stuff. And a note. A note that explained that their relationship had run it’s course, both professionally and personally, and he’d appreciate it if Mycroft didn’t contact him again.’ 

Greg said, ‘Jesus Christ.’ 

‘Of course he went straight home. To find the locks changed, and his partner’s ‘real’ partner – the one he’d been seeing on the side for years, already moved in. Turned out they were just waiting for the business to reach the kind of turnover that they’d be comfortable with before getting rid of Mycroft.’ 

Greg said slowly. ‘God, that’s - horrible. But - how would  _Mycroft_ , of all people, not know what was going on?’ 

‘That's what I said. Less brutally than that, but only slightly, because I was three sheets to the wind at that point. 

‘He said of course he knew there had been someone else, but chose to believe it was only temporary. He knew this man was passing his work off as his own, but believed it was for the good of them as a couple. He knew this man was currying favour with all of his contacts, but believed it was for the benefit of them both. Was happy to have everything in his name, because they were together. Said he was deliberately, almost wilfully blind to all this man’s flaws. Because he loved him. 

‘He finished by getting to his ultimate point which was that I was better off without my ex because caring about people will ultimately blind you to the reality of a situation, and negatively influence your decision making. And in our work, that’s never a good thing.’ 

Anthea took another sip of wine. ‘That man didn’t just break his heart, he took his work from him too. It took him years to build his reputation again. And no-one ever knew. Not Sherlock, not his parents. 

‘My only regret is that I couldn’t get the man’s name. I wanted to hunt the bastard down. I might have said as much, being a bit drunk, but Mycroft said whilst he appreciated the sentiment, he would rather simply never have anything to do with him again.’ 

Greg said, ‘But he can’t think that I’d -' 

‘I'm sure he doesn’t, but I know he believes that affection for anyone at all renders his position far more difficult.’ 

‘Well shit. With a history like that, I don’t know if I blame him.’ He added, hesitantly, ‘And there’s not been anyone – significant - since?’ 

Anthea shook her head with certainty. ‘No. No-one. Not while I've been with him. You’ve seen him. He keeps everybody – ‘ She described a circle with her arms outstretched. ‘Until you.’ 

‘Including me.’ 

‘Only since yesterday.’ 

Greg finished his wine. ‘So, when should I talk to him?’  

Anthea said with certainty, ‘Tomorrow. It’s Sunday, so he’ll be working at home. He’s got some conference calls in the day, but nothingafter five.’ 

Greg said, ‘ _Tomorrow_?’ 

‘No time like the present, Detective Inspector.’ 

Greg said, ‘But – yeah. Okay. Tomorrow.’ 

* 

Across London, Mycroft stared in irritation  at the deactivated security system, and slight disarrangement of his rug. Even before he had entered the living room, he began, ‘How many times must I ask you not to break in to my house?’ 

His brother didn’t look up from his place in Mycroft’s chair, where he was typing at Mycroft’s laptop. ‘I wouldn’t need to, if you’d just tell me when you change the security codes.’ 

Mycroft threw his coat over the back of the chair opposite. ‘And as you sit there, trying to hack into my personal laptop, do you really wonder why I don’t? How is that going, by the way?’ 

‘Closer than last time. Give me ten more minutes.’ 

Mycroft crossed the room, seized the laptop, slammed it shut, and returned it to its place beside his chair.  

Sherlock frowned. ‘Well that was unsporting.’ 

Mycroft sighed. ‘Get your sport somewhere else. And speaking of being somewhere else -’ He gestured expansively towards the door.  

Sherlock said, ‘I didn’t come here to access your laptop.’ 

Mycroft sat heavily on the sofa. ‘Really? Any more stunning revelations for me? Feel free to tell me in advance what is the minimum amount of this conversation I am required to tolerate.’ 

Sherlock said bluntly, ‘I want you to stay away from Greg Lestrade.’ 

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, then barked a laugh. ‘You can’t be serious.’ 

Sherlock didn’t blink. ‘Of course I’m serious.’ 

Mycroft pushed himself upright. ‘On second thoughts – you don’t mind if I drink during this conversation? It promises to be more entertaining than I thought.’ He crossed to the decanter and began to pour.  

Sherlock began warningly, ‘Mycroft -’ 

His brother snapped, ' _What_ , Sherlock? I cannot believe that even  _you_ would have the audacity to come here to berate me for mistreatment of DI Lestrade.’ He replaced the decanter with a hand that was slightly unsteady. ‘This would be the same Lestrade whose intelligence you berate at every turn? The same Lestrade whose name it took you  _three years_  to reliably recall? The same Lestrade whose job you frequently endanger, with what I can only describe as callous disregard? The same Lestrade who you allowed to  _believe you dead_  in spite of his affection for you? The same Lestrade for whose feelings you care so much, you revealed his wife’s infidelity to him in front of his  _entire team_?  ** _That_** _Lestrade_?’ Mycroft’s voice, which had begun in a steady and reasonable tone, had begun to shake as the volume had increased. He stopped and drew a breath. ‘I will not be taking any lectures from you on that subject.’ 

Sherlock’s expression had gone from knowing, flirted with irritated, but landed, to Mycroft’s intense concern, on surprised. He watched his brother gather himself, then said quietly, almost to himself, ‘John was right. Unbelievable.’ 

Mycroft threw back half of his scotch. ‘I'm getting the benefit of Doctor Watson’s wisdom as well, am I? What a red-letter day for me.’  

Sherlock said, still in that quiet, even tone, ‘I’ve warned him, you know. Told him to have nothing else to do with you. Told him to get out now with his sanity and pride intact.’ 

Mycroft said bitterly, ‘I would expect no less of you, brother mine.’ 

Sherlock carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Do you know what he said? He wanted to know if I thought calling you would be a bit forward. He is clearly incapable of acting in his own best interests in this matter, so you will have to be the sensible one. If you’ll forgive the poetic turn of phrase, break his heart. Rip it out and stamp on it. Make sure there’s no coming back. I’m sure you’re more than capable.’ 

Mycroft stared at him in disbelief. ‘I thought you were here to warn me off doing that. Isn’t this the shovel talk, as convention would have it?’ 

‘No. You’ll do it anyway, sooner or later. I’m here to tell you to make it sooner. Before he’s had a chance to get too attached.’ Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and sighed in irritation. ‘For all is faults, Greg Lestrade is a _good man_. And his affections have lighted on you. In other circumstances I'd be pleased. He is the least worst brother in law I could conceive of. But I won’t stand by and watch you ruin him. He isn’t like you. He thinks caring  _is_ an advantage. It's practically the ethos by which he lives his life, for good or ill, and it works for him. It makes him who he is. And – I like who he is. He is useful. And not entirely unintelligent. He deserves better than being with someone who isn’t capable of loving him back. So do him the favour of pushing him away. You owe him that, and so do I.’ 

The room fell silent. Then Mycroft said, quietly, 'You really don't think very highly of me, do you?'

Sherlock stared into the fireplace as the seconds ticked by. He turned and Mycroft thought he would simply leave without replying. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets and said softly, without meeting Mycroft's gaze, 'I do, actually. I wouldn't be here If I didn't.'

He sighed, and continued, 'You've obsessed with control all your life. You've believed you know better than everyone else since you were seven. The fact that you're often right stops you being ridiculous and makes you almost unbearable. Particularly to those whose lives you see as your direct responsibility. God knows I resented you for it for long enough.'

Mycroft murmured, almost inaudibly, 'Past tense?'

Sherlock swepton, 'But you always have a rationale. A justification. I don't believe you have ever acted from cruelty. Or malice. Even when it might have looked that way from - another perspective. 

'You have so much power, and so few people to tell you what you can or can't do. Or even what you should do. You set those limits yourself, for good or ill, but you've been trapped by them for so long now, I don't think you remember what it's like to be without them. Which is why you have to push Lestrade away. Even if you wanted to love him, I'm just not sure you're capable any more.

'I'm saying this for your good as much as his. I don't think you'd want to hurt him, I just don't think you'd know how to stop yourself. And you'd both suffer for it.'

He stopped. Waited for the inevitable refutation. When none came, he looked over at his brother. Mycroft was hunched into the sofa, staring at the empty fireplace. Sherlock experienced a moment of concern. He wished suddenly that he had not insisted on making this call alone. John, he felt, would know if he had just said something wildly inappropriate. 

He waited. Mycroft's continued silence was - troubling. He said, hesitantly, 'I have thought, lately -' He stopped. 'It's been suggested - ' He stopped again. 

Mycroft didn't move, although his eyes flicked to his brother. He said, and his voice was brittle, 'Please finish whatever it was you came to say.'

Sherlock crossed the room and sat down next to his brother. Mycroft, if possible, became even stiller. For a moment they both stared at the fireplace, and then Sherlock said, 'Thank you.' 

There was no response from the man at his side. He carried on uncertainly, 'For - always trying to help me. You were insufferably high handed and arrogant about it, but you can't help that. I think perhaps I should have said it before, so - thank you, Mycroft.'

The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime. As no further comment was forthcoming, Mycroft stirred, looking at his brother's profile in the firelight. He said quietly, 'You're welcome, Sherlock.'  

Into the silence he added, 'And you were insufferable and ungrateful. But - you can always rely on my high handed arrogance to be at your disposal, should you ever again decide you need me. You, and Doctor Watson.'

Sherlock nodded, and they watched the fireplace, listened to the clock chime, and the echoes die away.  

Mycroft said, 'You should - ' As Sherlock said, 'I need to - '

they finished together, ' - get back to Baker Street.'

They blinked at each other for a second, then stood as if by prearranged signal, and Sherlock crossed to the door as Mycroft murmured, 'Good evening, brother mine.'

Sherlock turned on the threshold and flashed a brief smile before disappearing. Mycroft watched the empty doorway for some time afterwards. 

* 

Greg spent most of Sunday composing and deleting texts to Anthea about why going to see Mycroft would be a bad idea, and why they should just forget the whole thing. Which was obviously why evening time found him once again skirting the expensive rug and facing a clearly reluctant Mycroft.  

This time, Mycroft didn’t offer him a seat, so he didn’t take one. Mycroft didn’t sit either, but stood awkwardly at the other side of the fireplace, calmly reiterating his opening statement about being grateful if Lestrade could be brief, as he had a significant amount of work to complete. This at least, Lestrade thought, was unlikely to be a lie.  

Greg took a breath. He'd been planning versions of this conversation all day, so he had a fair idea of what he wanted to say. Unfortunately, confronted with Mycroft, who had apparently elected to wear a beautifully fitted suit even when working from home, Greg's brain was refusing to co-operate. To break the silence he plunged in with, ‘Okay, Mycroft, look. Here it is. I know that the other night, er, afterwards, you felt uncomfortable. With me. And I don’t blame you. Things moved really quickly, and I think we – we got ahead of ourselves a bit.’ He waited, and at the lack of response, continued awkwardly, ‘And I know this won't be easy for you, but I really think it’d be worth giving this – us – a go. I think we could be good together. I’d certainly like to try. If – if you’re willing.’ 

Mycroft was staring at him, expression almost painfully unresponsive. 

Greg carried on, a little desperately, ‘I know you think you’re too busy, that having - someone - would hamper your work in some way, but you can’t really know that until you’ve given it a try. You might find that having someone around, someone to support you, is – nice. Helpful, even.’ 

‘You are presuming to know an awful lot about what I think and feel, Detective Inspector.’ Mycroft’s voice wasn’t even especially cold, just horribly, deliberately devoid of all expression.  

Greg said testily, ‘Oh, come on, Mycroft, don’t do that.’ 

‘Do what?’ 

‘That thing you do. Put your game face on, like I'm some head of state whose arse you’re about to kick. You don’t need to do that. It’s just us here.’  

Mycroft sighed. ‘Ah. And that, I’m afraid, is the fallacy upon which your entire theory rests.’ 

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ 

‘You are operating under the notion that there are in some way, two versions of me. The man who assists the British Government and the private individual, the latter being, according to your theory, in need of some emotional support. You may rest assured that that man exists only in your mind. And there this conversation ends.’ 

‘Bullshit.’ 

‘I beg your pardon?’ 

‘That’s a steaming pile of horseshit, Mycroft, and you know it.’ 

Mycroft’s voice dropped to a timbre that struck fear into high ranking politicians the world over. ‘This assumption of yours that you understand my own thinking better than I do, Detective Inspector, is the height of arrogance. And a highly unattractive quality.’ 

Lestrade continued unconcerned. ‘And your assumption that I can’t see past this ‘I don’t care about anything, I just do politics’ line that you like to sell, is pretty damn arrogant too, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft snapped, ‘And what is it, exactly, you think my motivations are? Do you think there is _anything_ I do that is not borne out of evidence? Of logic? Do you think I spent three hours yesterday trying to convince various foreign governments of the benefits of environmental legislation because I have a romantic fondness for trees? Or because the science of climate change is irrefutable and environmental disaster would be bad for our export market? Do you think I assist the security services to rout out domestic terrorism because I have objections to their ideology? Or because terrorism is bad for the business of UK PLC? I am using the simplest possible examples here, in the hopes that you will understand: I do not do sentiment, or romance, or emotionalism. I, like Sherlock, do the work for its own sake. This is what I am good at. There is literally no-one who is better at what I do, than I am. And that is precisely because I do not allow my judgement to be clouded by the type of romantic fallacies that you are currently espousing.’  

Greg stared at him in disbelief. ‘Wow. That was – you really belief that, don’t you? 

‘What an extraordinary thing to – yes, DI Lestrade, yes, I really do believe that, because it is true. Now if you will excuse me - ‘ He gestured towards the door.  

Greg stood his ground. ‘No.’  

‘No, what?’ 

‘No, I won’t excuse you. It’s my turn. Also, it isn’t true. I mean, it really demonstrably isn’t, Mycroft, for crying out loud: I’ve seen you. I was there, remember, when Sherlock overdosed. I was at the hospital. Both times. I saw you. Sitting by his bed, for _days_. Where was your important work then? Don’t even try to tell me you don’t care about your brother.’ 

‘Sherlock has an extraordinary mind, worthy of preservation -’ 

‘Bollocks to his mind. If any of those overdoses had ruined that mind of his, would you have done any differently? Don’t answer, I already know. You’d be taking care of him, the same way you do your sister.’ 

‘That is entirely di - ‘ 

‘Your sister,’ Greg continued, ‘who by your own admission is the single most dangerous individual in this country. Why keep her safe, Mycroft?’ 

Mycroft said icily, ‘You aren’t surely suggesting that I  _kill my sister_  to prove my lack of sentiment?’ 

Greg fired back, ‘Isn’t that the logical extension of your position though? Isn’t her very existence – with that extraordinary intellect and complete lack of conscience – a threat to ‘UK PLC’?’ 

Mycroft paused. ‘We do not -  _murder_. Lines must be drawn.’ 

Greg said acerbically, ‘Oh, I’m sure. Like Sherlock and Magnussen? Didn’t serve much jail time for that, did he?’ 

Mycroft snapped, ‘That was  _different_ _.’_  

‘Why did you fly Anthea half way round the world at a moment’s notice to be with her dying father? Was that different too?’ 

‘How did you – she is my employee, it is _logical_ to ensure her loyalty -’ 

‘Why did you pull my mum and sister out of Turkey?’ 

Mycroft hesitated. ‘That – was a mistake.’  

‘Oh, was it?’  

‘Yes, I – you – are an associate of Sherlock’s - useful to  - ‘ 

‘You cared.’  

‘ _No_.’ 

‘Yes.’  

‘I did not -’ 

‘Why is this so hard for you to admit?’  

‘Why does this  _matter_ to you?’ Mycroft's hard won control was fraying and his voice had lost it's equanimity. Greg felt a rush of something that felt oddly like triumph. _There you are._

He continued relentlessly, ‘You care about Sherlock, Anthea, - ‘ 

‘Lestrade, for God’s sake - ‘ 

‘ -your parents, your sister - ‘ 

Mycroft's control snapped. ‘ _Alright!_  I care about them! And what good does it do me?' He was almost shouting and made an obvious effect to rein himself in as he continued, 'How does it improve my ability to do this work? Let me tell you, it does not. It _hampers_  me. By their mere existence, they make my life more difficult.’ 

Greg said, ‘What are you saying? You’d be better off without them?’ 

‘Yes! No – I – for god’s sake Lestrade, what do you want from me?’ 

‘Don’t you know? Christ, haven’t you figured this out yet? You’re the smartest guy I’ve ever even heard of and you don’t recognise when someone is trying to tell you that they – Mycroft, I care about you. A lot, actually. And I just – I need to know I’m not alone here.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘I  - oh _Christ_. I think I’m in love with you, Mycroft. Or I’m trying to be. You don’t make it easy.’ 

Mycroft stared at him in disbelief. He went to speak, but for the only time that Greg had ever seen, the words didn't come. He stopped, and tried again, 'Greg, I - I have made mistakes. Many and repeated mistakes. Adler. Moriaty. Eurus.  And all of them, in some way connected with my family. They are enough weakness. I cannot, I  _cannot_ afford more. Caring is  _not an advantage_ _,_ Greg, it is  _not_.’ It was as distressed as Greg had ever heard him. 

‘Yes. _Yes_ , it is. It can be. Take the chance, Mycroft, come on. Let me prove it to you. Please.'

The room fell silent. 

‘I’m sorry, Gregory. You cannot know how much.’ Mycroft’s voice trembled, and he paused for moment, before continuing in a steadier tone. ‘But I’m afraid it’s simply impossible.’ 

‘Mycroft - ‘ 

 _‘No_.’ His voice was firmer now. ‘My answer is given, Gregory. Please do me the courtesy of accepting it.’  

Greg swallowed. ‘That would be a lot easier if I didn’t think you wanted this as much as I do.’ 

Mycroft dropped his gaze to the floor. A long moment passed. Just as Greg was about to speak again, Mycroft looked up, and his face had slipped into that expressionless, neutral mask. ‘I am sorry, Gregory, that I have allowed you to believe that any kind of relationship between us would be remotely feasible. Although it was somewhat naive of you.’ A tiny, icy smile crossed his face. ‘Where did you fondly imagine you would fit into my life? Tea at the Palace? Downing street receptions? Dinner at the embassies? Or perhaps more of your valuable advice on my work?’ 

Mycroft’s tone was cold. Greg could feel the blood draining from his face.  

Mycroft continued, idly looking down at some papers on his side table and aligning them, ‘You are a relatively attractive man, Detective Inspector, for your age. But there, I’m afraid, your appeal does rather begin and end. It isn’t like we are compatible in any other area, is it? Social. Economic. Political. Intellectual. I mean,' he waved a hand vaguely, 'what on earth _would_ we talk about?’ 

Greg said, and it felt like his voice was coming from a long way away, ‘We’ve talked -’ 

Mycroft laughed, a short, brittle sound. ‘Goodness yes, and what hard work that was. Not ultimately worth the payoff, I'm sure you'd agree.'

For a moment, Greg was back in his old living room, listening to a female voice say, ‘Alright  _yes_ , I was seeing him then too, Christ Greg, we had one or two good times, you think that makes a marriage?’ 

Dimly, he heard Mycroft continue, ‘Now we’ve got that rather demeaning physical attraction out of our systems, I don’t think there’s any need to prolong things, is there? Perhaps we should – stay out of each other’s way. From now on.’ 

Trembling, and not trusting himself to speak, Greg turned and walked away.  

* 


	7. Chapter 7

Anthea glanced at her phone. Unsurprisingly, since she had looked less than two minutes previously, there were no new messages. Or at least, none she was actually interested in. Nothing from Greg, and nothing from Mycroft. She  _hated_ not knowing what was going on. She went back to her laptop, and another hour went by. Outside the window, a grey London evening was fast becoming an overcast London night. On her open email system, her inbox showed the identities of everyone who had sent her an email that day. The words  _Holmes, Mycroft_ in the received from column ran through her electronic day like a repeated line of music, until two hours previously, when it stopped.

As Anthea watched, another three emails appeared, none of them from Mycroft. It wasn’t like not hearing from Mycroft was rare – he could go hours without emailing her when absorbed, that was the point of her filtering his emails – but it was a little odd on a Sunday evening. They usually fired emails back and forth regularly for at least an hour, preparing for the week ahead. She bit her lip. Maybe – hopefully – he had something better to do with his Sunday evening. She huffed a breath, glanced at her phone again, then seized her empty wine glass and headed for the kitchen.  

An electronic chime brought her racing back. She had set her phone to alert her only for messages from Greg or Mycroft, so she seized it eagerly and activated the screen. Under the legend,  _Lestrade_ _, Gregory (Met – DI)_  were three brief sentences:  _He's made it clear how he feels._ _We’re done. Do_ _me a favour: do_ _n’t contact me again._  

Anthea sat heavily and stared at the message. Outside the window, the threatening rain finally began to fall.  

* 

Anthea was early for work the next day. She checked Mycroft’s office as soon as she arrived, and as he clearly hadn’t been there, she returned to her own desk and prepared for the day ahead. Her phone rang and Frank’s name appeared in the display. A frisson of concern tickled Anthea’s mind as she held it to her ear.  

‘Frank?’  

His light cockney said, ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, is Mr Holmes at work already?’  

She said, ‘No, I understood he was using the car after me this morning.’ 

‘That was my understanding too, Ma’am, but I’m at his house, and no-one's answering the door. He usually lets me know if he won’t be needing me.’  

Anthea said, ‘Wait there a moment Frank, please.’ She called up the security systems at Mycroft’s house. The log of the previous thirty six hours made for quick reading. Mycroft’s arrival home on Saturday evening, the activation of the system’s home setting, then no changes until the brief interruption for the visit of Greg Lestrade the night before, then nothing again until the front door camera had been activated by the arrival of Frank.  

Anthea said lightly, ‘Goodness Frank, I’m sorry. It looks like Mr Holmes was at a meeting early this morning. He must have used one of the pool cars so as to not disturb you.’ 

Frank’s voice came back quickly, ‘I wouldn’t have minded, ma’am, always happy to help Mr Holmes. Well, as long as he’s okay, I’ll get back to base.’  

‘Thanks, Frank.’ Anthea was out of the office before she hung up.  

* 

At Mycroft’s house, Anthea overrode the security system, let herself in and stood in the chilled hallway. Into the worrying silence, she called, ‘Mr Holmes?’ There was no response. She tried again, crossing the hall as she called, ‘Mr Holmes?  _Mycroft_?’  

At the door to his living room, she stopped abruptly then ran across the space to the couch, dropping to her knees. Mycroft was huddled against the back of his settee, a pillow clutched to his chest, unmoving, but from this shorter distance Anthea could hear him breathing. She reached across and pressed two fingers lightly to his carotid artery for added reassurance. His pulse was regular. She slumped in relief, then took a steadying breath. He was still wearing the suit she’d glimpsed in their conference calls from the previous day, but the tie and jacket were crumpled on the floor, and the waistcoat was open and creased beyond the wit of the finest cleaning service Anthea knew. Mycroft's shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and open at the neck. The only time Anthea could remember seeing him even nearly so disarranged was in the wake of enemy action.  

She looked around. The decanter next to the settee was empty, as was the bottle next to it, and the glass on the floor. Anthea stared. That bottle had been delivered new on Friday morning. Mycroft, someone whose usual drinking pattern saw him get through a bottle in a month, had emptied it in less than three days. Most of it, Anthea would be prepared to bet, last night. She returned her gaze to her boss, oblivious to her presence. Even in sleep, his face was creased in lines of distress. She reached across, laid a gentle hand on his arm, and murmured, ‘Oh  _Mycroft_.’ 

After a moment, she stood, went to the kitchen, filled an empty decanter and a glass with chilled water and ice, found some painkillers, and left them all on the table nearest to the settee, before returning to the kitchen, partially closing the door, and taking out her phone.  

‘Liz? It’s Anthea. Mr Holmes is feeling under the weather today so I’ve managed to persuade him to work from home.’ She paused. ‘Yes, I know, it’s a miracle, next thing you know he’ll be listening to me about the benefits of vacation time.’ She laughed lightly. ‘Listen, could you go through his calendar and rearrange his schedule for today. If anyone complains, just refer them to me. And get James to bring the tablet, laptop and papers from my desk. We’re going to go through the Ecuador brief. Thanks. Tell him to just knock, I’ll come to the door.’  

She thumbed disconnect, drummed her fingers briefly on the marbled surface of the kitchen island, then sat, staring at her phone. She turned it in her hands as she thought. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt at a loss about anything. Certainly, years had gone by. But right now? The waters were definitely over her head. It was an – unsettling feeling. Somehow, somewhere, she’d managed to take a promising situation and comprehensively ruin it. And she had no idea at all how to make it right. She flicked through her contacts list and brought up the message from last night.  _We’re done. Don’t contact me again._  

She activated another programme, and a GPS tracker showed her the current location of the phone of DI Lestrade. New Scotland Yard. So he was angry. And upset. But at work. She turned the phone again. The log from the security system said Lestrade had been in house for eleven minutes. Just enough time to say what he wanted to say and be comprehensively convinced of the error of his ways. So comprehensively that he no longer wanted to hear from her, let alone Mycroft. She looked at the door to the hall. She’d heard Mycroft take people down before. He was capable of breath-taking verbal brutality. He had an eerily accurate ability to know precisely which buttons to press. It was a trick that he rarely used, and absolutely never without severe provocation. And he’d done it to Lestrade. Deliberately. Lestrade, who Anthea had sent. She felt a stab of guilt. She hoped Greg was okay, whatever he was doing.  

Whatever the provocation, Mycroft had been wrong. And he obviously knew it. Because the only thing that every other incident had in common was also characteristic – the other person had had it coming. Usually, in spades. So neither Anthea, who was often present, or Mycroft, experienced a moments regret. Until last night. When Mycroft had regretted whatever he'd said so entirely that he’d drunk himself unconscious. Something that was so  _completely_ out of character it was only Anthea’s awareness of Mycroft’s passionate desire for privacy that was stopping her calling anyone else.  

She walked back into the hall and stood in the doorway, watching him breathe.  _Why won't you let yourself_ _have this_ _? He was crazy about you._  

The doorbell sounded and she crossed the hall, retrieved her papers and laptop from the ever-helpful James, and returned to set up a temporary office in Mycroft’s kitchen. As her inbox began to list her unread messages, she looked again at her phone. She couldn’t just do nothing. There might be no way to salvage Mycroft’s relationship with Greg, but she couldn’t just let this go. She knew that Mycroft would do his absolute best to pretend that nothing had happened. Assuming he didn’t fire her first. And she’d go along with it. Because that was her job. But he needed –  _someone._ Someone who’d be honest with him. Someone who cared. Slowly,  Anthea  reached for her phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she found the number she wanted. She thought,  _th_ _ere_ _are other jobs_. And hit dial.  

* 

Half an hour later, Sherlock’s phone emitted a plaintive beep. The detective’s head emerged from the fridge and swivelled in its direction. As he crossed the room to seize his phone from the table he said, ‘You’ve put some of our food on Rose’s shelf again.’ 

John said, as he tried to coax some interest in breakfast from his daughter, ‘Well, she doesn’t mind.’ He smiled at her. ‘Do you sweetheart? And we wouldn’t need such a strict system if there wasn’t a section for body parts, no we wouldn’t.’ 

Instead of the expected rejoinder, Sherlock emitted a long-suffering sigh and flung his phone down in irritation. John looked up. Sherlock said over his shoulder, as he returned to the kitchen, ‘Mummy is coming to visit.’ 

John grinned at Rose, ‘Hey that’s nice, isn’t it? Nanna is coming to see you.’ He clapped enthusiastically and Rose imitated him with a gurgling laugh.  

‘She’s not  _Nanna_ ,’ Sherlock grumbled from the kitchen. ‘And she was never this enthusiastic about visiting  _before_. I told you this would keep happening. We need to set  _boundaries_...’  

‘Ooo, you ignore misery daddy over there, we like seeing Nanna, don’t we?’ Rose laughed, again, gurgled something incoherent, then distinctly, ‘Na-na.’ 

John froze. ‘She _said_ it – Sherlock - ‘ 

His flatmate had vaulted the sofa to stand next to the high chair and smile down at Rose. ‘I heard her.’ He leaned closer. ‘Clever girl. Can you say it again? Say Nanna. Nan-na.’ Rose grinned happily, and silently, up at them both.  

* 

Mycroft woke to weak sunlight through the open window falling on his face. Frowning, he pulled his duvet higher. The light was unpleasant, his head hurt, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. Then a number of other things called themselves to his attention. This was a throw, not his duvet. He appeared to be on the couch, in the living room, and still wearing his suit. It was daylight, and therefore Monday morning. At least ten-thirty, by the angle of the light. What the hell was he doing h-?  

 _Gregory_. The memory hit him like a physical blow, and he moaned aloud, before standing, as quickly as he could without falling, crossing the hall to the bathroom, and vomiting into the toilet. 

He rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, and leaned on the sink to recover. He didn’t look at the man in the mirror. He vaguely recalled seeing fresh water and painkillers in the living room. As he crossed the hall again he slowed as a female voice from the kitchen said smoothly, 'Not at all, it’s always a pleasure to speak with you, Ambassador, do give our best to your husband, I know Mr Holmes will be delighted to see you both when you’re in London again. And now if you don’t mind – yes, of course, of course, thank you. Yes, have a safe trip. Any problems, do let me know. Safe journey. Goodbye, Ambassador.’ 

The part of Mycroft’s brain that wasn’t dulled by pain, denial, alcohol and the need to sit back down in a darkened room, supplied, _Ambassador. Ecuador. Should have met with her this morning. Damn._ _Pleasant_ _woman._ _Effective._ _Can be prickly. Well done_ _Anthea_.   

He sat back on the couch and held his head in his hands for a moment before swallowing two of the painkillers with some water. There was a slight rustle from the doorway. Anthea said quietly, ‘I’ve moved all of your meetings for today and tomorrow. You don’t need to be in the office until Wednesday. I’ve also moved some deadlines to the end of the week. You don’t need to work if you don’t feel up to it. I’ve told the office you’re feeling ill and won’t be in for a few days. But you can miraculously recover tomorrow if you want to.’ 

She stopped, then said, ‘Can I - do anything?’  

Mycroft didn’t look at her. He said, ‘No, you’ve done enough. Please return to the office. I will be in tomorrow.’  

Anthea moved to leave, then said, ‘Your mother called. She’s in town today to see Sherlock, John, and Rose, and she wanted to call in and see you. I mentioned you were at home and under the weather, but if anything, it made her more insistent on seeing you.’ 

Mycroft sighed heavily. ‘Yes, it would.’ He rubbed at his forehead resignedly. ‘What time did she say she would call?’ 

‘Around three.’ 

'If she must, I’ll be here. Call me if anything important needs my attention. Otherwise I will see you tomorrow.’ 

* 

By three, Mycroft had showered, changed, taken most of the painkillers Anthea had left, attempted some toast, drank three pints of water, and successfully avoided thinking about the previous day by taking out his laptop and working on anything that he could find requiring his direct attention, and some things that clearly didn’t.  

At ten past three, the doorbell rang and he steeled himself, answered it, and led his mother through to the immaculately tidy kitchen for afternoon tea.  

His mother was saying ‘- and she can say Nanna now, which is so sweet, Sherlock complained, obviously, but I told John of course I didn’t mind, the poor little thing needs all the family she can get, what with losing her mother so young, and I’m delighted to help. I told Sherlock they should bring her to us for a holiday soon. They are doing so well, the two of them, and Mrs Hudson of course. I did worry at first, anyone less domestic than your brother it would be hard to imagine, but John has been such a positive influence, and Sherlock really is quite sweet with Rose.’ She broke off to sip her tea.  

Mycroft said with all the limited enthusiasm he could muster, ‘Yes, Doctor Watson has been excellent for Sherlock.’  

His mother said, ‘And it was very kind of you to send a car for me dear, but you really shouldn’t, I can manage the trains. Not that I don’t enjoy a chat with that lovely assistant of yours, such a  _nice_ woman, so efficient.’ 

Mycroft frowned. His mother continued, ‘Are you sure you’re still not feeling under the weather? You haven’t touched your tea, and you do look pale.’  

‘I’m fine, mother, don’t fuss.’ 

His mother watched him for second. ‘You know, your brother said something a little odd earlier.’ 

‘And this is worthy of note because?’ 

‘Well, it was about you. And that nice police Inspector he works with sometimes.’  

Mycroft froze. His mother continued, ‘He seemed to think, and really it is  _unusual_ for your brother to mention  such  things, that you and Inspector Lestrade  – it is Gregory, isn’t it? -  were  _together_ , or least, thinking of being together.’ She smiled happily at him. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mycroft dear, but I was  _terribly_ pleased. I’ve only met him a few times of course, and not always under the best of circumstances, but he seems like such a  _kind_ man, and always so helpful to your brother, who can be a little difficult sometimes, as we know -’ 

Mycroft ground out, ‘He was  _wrong_.’ 

At his tone, his mother stopped. After a pause, she said, ‘Well, that is - unusual.’ When no further response was forthcoming, she said carefully, ‘Anyway, the  _odd_ thing was that Sherlock seemed to think he had successfully discouraged the relationship, and that that was somehow a  _good_ thing. Well, quite apart from the unlikeliness of anyone taking relationship advice from Sherlock, kindly intended as it might be, I did feel the need to tell him that he should not be discouraging others from forming romantic relationships, just because he himself finds the idea so unnecessary. After all, whilst he and John may not be a  _couple_ as such, –’ there was an infinitesimal pause, just long enough for a correction to be inserted if required, then she continued, ‘ - sharing his life with John and Rose has had a wonderful effect on your brother. It’s positively selfish of him to want less for others and I told him so.’   

Mycroft had used this little speech to gather his resources, and at her expectant face, said in a voice that only his years of diplomatic work kept firm,  _‘D_ _etective_ Inspector Lestrade and I are occasional colleagues. That is all.’ 

His mother said, ‘Oh. So, Sherlock was wrong? Goodness, I must tell him. It happens so rarely.’ She blinked at him innocently. 

Mycroft said, with reluctance, ‘His assertion - such as it was - wasn't, I suppose, _entirely_ incorrect. He - that is, Lestrade – expressed an interest in pursuing a relationship with me. I - ‘ 

His mother, interrupting, brightened immediately. ' _Did_ he? How delightful of him. What did he say?’ 

‘He said -’ Mycroft felt as if the neutral kitchen walls were closing in, ‘he said that he was in lo -’  He  broke off,  staring at the counter top. ‘I told him it would not be a good idea. In no uncertain terms.  I may have been – ‘ he forced the words out, not meeting his mother’s gaze, ‘I  _was_ \- unkind.’  

‘Oh. Oh dear.’ His mother blinked, then said gently, ‘That’s a shame. You didn’t feel as if he might be a - good choice as a prospective partner?’  

Mycroft said tightly, ‘He is an excellent police officer, and unobjectionable as a manager. He is incredibly patient with Sherlock, and generally personable.’  

His mother said mildly, ‘You didn’t answer the question, darling. I asked how you  _felt_ about him, not what you  _think_ about him.’ 

Mycroft began firmly, ‘I really don’t see - ‘ before his voice, to his utter horror, broke, and the sentence died in his throat. He felt moisture pricking at the back of his eyes, and he rubbed a hand quickly across them to dispel it.  

His mother had fallen silent. As Mycroft struggled to regain his composure, she reached across and took his hand in hers. Over the hitch in his breathing she said quietly, ‘It is a wonderful thing, Mycroft, to be loved. Don’t throw it away. Go and see him. Ask his forgiveness. And, if he will, then  _let_ him love you. You do deserve it, you know.’  

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then slowly withdrew her own and sighed. She added, almost absently, ‘You were so clever, you boys. We wanted you to do as much as you could with those brilliant minds. But now I think that maybe we forgot to remind you both to just  _feel_ things, sometimes.’ She smiled at him, a little sadly. ‘I am sorry, my dear, if we did that. I really am.’  

Mycroft said, around a lump in his throat so constricting he could barely breathe, ‘Don’t be silly, mother, you have nothing to apologise for.’ He moved to stand, and his mother did likewise, before stepping forward and enveloping him in a sudden, tight hug, murmuring affectionately, ‘My darling, brilliant boy,’ before pressing a kiss to his temple and stepping back, just as quickly.  

She began to gather her things. ‘Now. You will go and see Gregory, won’t you? If nothing else you must apologise for whatever it was you said. It’s only polite, Mycroft dear.’ 

‘Yes, mother.’ 

She smiled encouragingly at him. ‘And  _do_ tell him he’s handsome. He really is, you know, and men like to hear that.’ 

*

The next day, Anthea watched as Mycroft arrived at the office without fanfare, sat at his desk, and started his work as though the previous day hadn’t happened. By noon they were at Whitehall for a series of meetings, and by five they were back at the office, behind schedule, but still working. The only problem with all this efficiency was that Anthea had never seen Mycroft on such a blatant automatic pilot. He was going through the motions so obviously she was certain it was only his fearsome reputation that had stopped him being contradicted at least twice in the same meeting.  

In the face of Anthea’s quiet urging, he drank regularly, but ate little. As evening  approached, Anthea looked up from her desk at a sound from his office, to see Mycroft, coat in hand, preparing to leave.  

Anthea said quickly, 'Should I call the car?’ Mycroft hesitated briefly, then said, ‘No, thank you Anthea. I shall walk.’ And left. Anthea frowned, returned to her desk, gave enough time for him to reach the street, then pulled up the footage from the security cameras outside the building. She left the browser window open and worked whilst tracking Mycroft across London for over an hour, until the rain started, and she and Mycroft realised simultaneously that his omnipresent umbrella was still in his office. She reached automatically for her phone, then stopped. If he wanted the car, he would call.  

The thought wasn’t terribly comforting as the huddled figure continued its journey, ignoring the downpour and becoming progressively wetter. Anthea had been fairly certain she knew where he was headed after hour one, and as hour two progressed, she was certain. As Mycroft crossed a busy road, and returned to the pavement, one of the passing cars, for no reason Anthea could see other than sheer vindictiveness, diverted from its straight course to pass through a deep puddle at the side of the road and drench Mycroft from head to foot. Mycroft halted in frozen disbelief, and tried to wring the worse of it from his coat, but the action was futile, so he gave up and simply kept walking. Anthea followed him for a few more seconds, then her resolve to be the better person failed her, and she rewound the footage, took down the make and registration of the car and underlined it on her pad. She was too busy worrying about Mycroft right now, but one day soon, when she was feeling especially irritable, that particular unsuspecting London motorist would be having a very bad day indeed.  

As Mycroft approached his destination, Anthea realised she had stopped working entirely and was just watching him walk. She ran a hand through her hair. This was ridiculous. Mycroft was a grown man and capable of looking after himself. As he reached the block of flats and went inside, Anthea wrestled with her anxiety for a few moments, then called her car, turned off her laptop, and went home.  

* 

Greg blinked at the clock on the wall. Less than five minutes had gone by since he last looked. He gazed around the room at the take-out remnants, beer bottles, and general disorder. Over on his TV, even Netflix had given up on him, and resorted to advertising for its latest shows. This was sad, bordering on pathetic. After two days of snapping at people at work, and miserable wallowing at home, he needed to be over it. This was far too much recovery time for someone who didn’t deserve it. He’d only been narrowly more distressed about the break-up of his marriage, and that was a proper relationship, not – whatever he’d had with Mycroft.  

He stood up. One day at time, his nan had said to him when he was a boy. Well today, he was going to clean himself – and his flat. And then see how he felt tomorrow. 

After half an hour of cleaning, his flat, whilst not immaculate, was at least acceptable, and he wandered into his bedroom, stripped off his t-shirt, and was about to undo his jeans when there was a knock at the door.  

 _Neighbours_. Greg thought.  _Probably the old lady from upstairs._ _I hope it’s not_ _‘_ _miscreants in the stairwell_ _’_ _again._  

He went to grab his t-shirt, took in the state of it, and retrieved a towel from cupboard to wrap around his shoulders on the way to the door.  

He opened it, and stared in disbelief at the slim, drenched figure of Mycroft. 

Mycroft took him in for a long moment, then swallowed, and said, ‘I am terribly sorry to have disturbed you, Detective Inspector, may I have a moment of your time?’  

Greg opened his mouth to say something suave and yet pointedly negative, but what came out was, ‘Where’s your umbrella?’  

‘Ah. I thought I should walk, to – to marshal my thoughts. I was – preoccupied and -.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I left it at the office.’  

Greg stared at him in disbelief. ‘You  _walked_ here? From  _Whitehall_? That’s got to be seven miles, Mycroft, what the hell? Too important for the tube?’  

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to Greg’s torso, and back to his face. ‘May I come in for a moment? There is something -  I would like to say.’ 

Greg’s mind had finally joined his body at the door. He said abruptly, ‘No. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.’ 

Mycroft’s face almost crumpled, and Greg gritted his teeth. He could hear his mother’s voice murmuring about the importance of behaving like a gentleman whenever possible. 

He said abruptly, ‘Come in and call your car.’ He stepped back, and as Mycroft slipped past him, he left pools of rainwater on Greg’s doorstep. Greg pulled the towel from round his neck and followed Mycroft into the living room, throwing it at him where he hovered next to the sofa.  

‘Here, use that. Right, I’m having a shower. Shut the door behind you when your car gets here.’ 

‘Gregory.’  

Greg turned and then immediately cursed himself. Why did Mycroft’s voice still have any effect on him at all? It was painful. And really annoying. He snapped, ‘ _What_ , Mycroft? Here to underline my inferiority again? No need, message received.’ 

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly. ‘Gregory, I cannot tell you how –  _abjectly_ sorry I am. I was –what I said to you was unconscionable. And untrue. Profoundly and entirely untrue.’ 

Greg said, 'Well, that's alright then. Close the door on your way out.’ 

‘Please Gregory. Please allow me to apologise.’  

‘You did. I heard it. Well done you. Was that it?’ 

‘No, I - ‘ Mycroft stopped, ‘I’m sorry, would you – would you mind awfully putting a shirt on?’ 

‘I would actually. It’s my flat. You’re the one that turned up uninvited. I’ve no problem with you waiting outside for your car. Which you should call, by the way. Soon as you like.’ 

Mycroft said, ‘Gregory, I know I have no right to ask this, but  _please_ hear me out.’ 

Greg didn’t move from the doorway, but crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You’ve got two minutes. Then I'm showering, and you’re leaving.’ 

Mycroft nodded. He said, ‘Please understand, I am not trying to excuse my comments from Sunday night. They were inexcusable. I am however seeking to provide context, and explain my actions.’  

He cleared his throat, and continued, ‘As I believe I indicated to you on Friday evening, I have been aware for some time that I – that you were becoming increasingly important to me. When it became clear that those feelings were reciprocated, I hoped that a brief -dalliance - might make us both realise that our feelings were no more than casual friendship and a passing attraction.’ 

Greg said flatly, ‘Didn’t work.’ 

‘No. It did not. It was a truly spectacular misjudgement.’ 

Mycroft shifted in place and unconsciously used his right hand to hold his left arm closer to his body, an action that made him look smaller and dripped more water onto Greg’s carpet. He continued, ‘I was in more danger than ever of becoming irrevocably attached. I needed you to leave before I simply begged you to stay. 

‘Fortunately, you left.’ Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. The action sprayed rain water across Greg's coffee table. ‘And then you came back. Full of determination to prove to me the error of my ways when all you did was make my point clearer than ever. When you said that you – that you loved me, I knew in that moment that there was nothing I wouldn’t do to hear you say it again. Nothing I wouldn’t give, if you asked.’ He looked seriously at Greg and added quietly, ‘And there is very little you could ask for, that I would be – somehow - unable to provide.

‘To someone in my position, such a feeling is – frightening. To be so – exposed is - ‘ He broke off, took a steadying breath. ‘You do - ‘ He looked at Greg in appeal, ‘You do see that?’  

Greg glanced at the clock, said, ‘Just so you know, you’re in injury time now.’ 

Mycroft’s brow furrowed in confusion. He said, ‘I - I needed to ensure that you would not repeat it. That you would go away, and stay away. To achieve this, I said things deliberately designed to hurt you. To exploit any insecurities you might be harbouring about a relationship with me. In such a way as to ensure that you would no longer harbour any affection towards me. In that, I am very much afraid that I succeeded.’ 

Greg said, ‘You did. In that, as in all things, you were unbelievably effective. Congratulations.’ 

Mycroft said, ‘Gregory, I cannot be sufficiently clear on this point: the things I said were  _untrue_. They were lies, designed to hurt and alienate.’ 

Greg barked a laugh. ‘You keep saying that. You know that makes it worse, right? I mean, even my ex, for all her faults, and Christ knows there were many, never deliberately set out to hurt me. You did. And time’s up, by the way.’ He turned back to the hallway.  

Mycroft said desperately, ‘Gregory, perhaps I haven’t been clear.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m trying to say that your feelings are reciprocated. Completely. Entirely.’ 

Greg turned and stared at him. 'This is you, telling me you love me? This is how you treat the people you love? Oh wait, hold on: you keep your sister locked up, your brother can’t stand you, your dad isn’t talking to you, and your assistant's petrified of being fired. Yep, I’d fit right in there, now I think about it.’  

Mycroft had gone even paler. Greg said, ‘You’re worried about me asking you for things? Well here’s my one and only request. Don’t be here when I get out.’ 

He left the room and a door down the hall shut with a slam.  

Mycroft stood for a moment, breathing hard. After a moment, he took a step towards the door, but his legs felt suddenly too weak to manage even those few steps and he sank onto Greg’s couch, holding his head with one hand, whilst the other clung to the towel like a lifeline. His mind seemed to be trying to process too many thoughts at once, and the only image it could summon was that kind face set in an expression of contempt,  _don’t be here, don’t be here_  - 

Mycroft tried to take a deeper breath, but his lungs weren’t co-operating, and his heart was beating too fast. _Calm down,_ he told himself desperately, _you_   _can get through this._  Even before he finished the thought, another part of his mind supplied,  _but last time you thought he loved you, and you were wrong. This time he really did love you. But you soon put a stop to that, didn’t you? Hurt him so badly he can barely tolerate you. Just like everyone else you care about._ He took a gasping, unsteady breath which came out like a sob. 

 _No, no, God no. Leave, get home, leave, keep it together._ He brought both hands to his face, and the towel brought with it the scent of Greg Lestrade, and the memory of being held, and the utterly crushing knowledge that it would never happen again, and Mycroft felt something in his chest break open. A lifetime of careful control was swept aside in an instant. The only concession to restraint he could manage was to bury his head in Greg’s towel, disguising the sound as much as he could, and tremble in the bruising silence.  

* 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I should trigger warn this chapter? Um. Brief mentions of violence, traumatic past experience. If that sounds like it might be triggering for you, read until the five asterisks, then skip the rest. I'll put a brief description in the end notes, you won't miss much. x
> 
>  

Greg stood, leaning on the inside of the bathroom door,  _willing_ Mycroft to leave. The longer he stayed the harder it was to be angry. Mycroft had looked so pale, so abject, and Greg had wanted to – no. No chance. He wasn’t about to set himself up for another rejection. He was quite prepared to simply stay in here for as long as it took Mycroft to take the hint and go. He knew, barring emergencies, he didn't need to work for the rest of the evening, but it was unlikely that the same was true for Mycroft, so all he had to do was wait him out.  

A quiet, aborted noise came from the living room. Greg frowned. That didn’t sound like a phone call. The sound came again. It was muffled, so Greg cracked the bathroom door quietly. Still muffled - but that was _definitely_ – Greg felt his heart seize, and was moving back to the lounge before he could think better of it. He stopped dead in the doorway as his anger dissipated like it had never been. Mycroft was hunched over on the edge of Greg’s couch, head in his hands, trembling all over, and that  _sound_  -  

Greg crossed the room, sank down, and gathered Mycroft into his arms, murmuring, ‘God, love, stop please, I’m here, it’s okay, it’s okay.’ He used one hand to guide Mycroft’s head to his shoulder, and the other to pull the trembling form to him and hold it tightly against his chest. He’d seen Mycroft upset before, but never anything approaching this. It was simultaneously terrifying and heart-breaking. He rubbed his hand over Mycroft’s back. ‘Shh now, shh, everything’s okay.’ He kept holding on, murmuring random words of comfort, until the noise slowly grew softer and stopped.

He kept holding on, and rubbing small circles against the damp of Mycroft’s coat, until an unrecognisable voice said brokenly from his shoulder, ‘I am so – very sorry.’  

Greg tightened his grip. ‘I know. I know. It’s okay.’ 

‘It isn't, I was dreadfulto you - ‘ 

‘Shh, don’t love, you’re here now, that’s what matters.’ 

‘You’re being –’ the voice hitched, ‘- so kind, and I was-’ 

‘It’s fine, it’s all forgiven love, honestly.’ 

There was a long pause, then the voice said quietly, ‘Why don’t you hate me?’ 

Greg stroked his hair. ‘I tried to. I really did. But I can’t see you hurting, My, I just can’t.’ 

They sat in silence for a moment longer.  

The voice, which was starting to steady slightly, said, ‘I have no right to even ask, but do you – I mean, do you still l-’ it broke off as Mycroft’s breath hitched again, and Greg said quickly, ‘Yes. Of course, yes. Always. For ages. Before I even realised. I love you. I can’t stop, even when I want to.’  

The voice said, _‘Oh_.’ And fell silent.  

Greg said, even as his heart clenched, ‘Please don’t pull away, not now,  _please_.’ 

Against him, Mycroft started, and Greg froze in distress before Mycroft’s arms slid around him and he angled himself to be even more tucked against Greg than he was already.  

Mycroft said, in a voice closer to his normal, ‘When I knew I'd pushed you away, when I thought you hated me, it was agony, I simply couldn’t bear it. I thought I didn’t need anyone. I was wrong. I need  _you_. I – I  _adore_ you, Gregory Lestrade.’ 

Greg breathed out, as a relief so profound flowed through his system it turned his muscles to jelly, and he sank against the couch, pulling Mycroft with him, and they lay together in silence.  

After a while he said slowly, ‘I’m not asking for any unkeepable promises here, but I need to know that Sunday won’t happen again. Not - deliberately. Not for anything.’ 

Mycroft was quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment, then pulled away far enough to see Greg’s face. Greg said swallowed, and said, ‘I won’t be that guy again, My, not even for you.’  

Mycroft said seriously, ‘Gregory, I can conceive of no circumstance in which I would wish to part from you. You are – more than have I ever dreamed possible.’ He took Greg's hand in both of his, and kissed it. Still holding Greg’s hand, he said carefully, ‘But there have been times in my work, when my life, and the lives of those close to me, have been - endangered. If we were - together, and I asked you to walk away, for your own safety, I need to know that you would do so. Without asking for details, and without being - pushed.’  

Greg took a breath, and exhaled. ‘You protect the people you love. I get that. But I can’t promise you that, I’m sorry. If you were in any danger, I'd want to be with you, that’s a given. So – that could only be a decision we’d make together, if we ever have to, but it wouldn’t be your decision to make on my behalf. That’s being in a relationship. That’s how it has to work. You’d need to remember you aren’t alone in this anymore.’ 

Mycroft dropped his gaze. He murmured, ‘I have been – alone in this – for a long time. The adjustment would be – difficult.’ 

Greg said, keeping his tone as steady as he could, ‘Too difficult?’ 

Mycroft’s gaze snapped up. For a moment his gaze roamed Greg’s face, then he took Greg’s face in his hands and kissed him with a kind of desperate fervency that tore at Greg’s heart. He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Greg’s as he murmured, ‘No, no – I will adjust. But - be patient with me Gregory, please.’  

Greg smiled up at him in relief. ‘I can do that.’ He tugged gently at Mycroft’s waist, and Mycroft lay back down, tucking against his side as Greg’s arms slipped back around him.   

After a while Greg said quietly, ‘I won't ask for things, you know.  I wouldn’t compromise you like that.’ 

Mycroft stilled for a moment, then said from his shoulder, ‘I find it is a risk I am willing to take. It is a risk I already take for others, for much less reward.’ 

Greg smiled against his forehead. ‘I’m a reward?’  

‘A far, far greater one than I deserve.’ Mycroft said with certainty. ‘Never think otherwise, Gregory, I beg you.’  

Silence fell again. Greg had never wanted to move less in his life. Mycroft was a warm weight at his side, and the world was wonderful, but, ‘My?’ 

‘Mm?’ 

‘You’re wet.’ 

‘Oh. Yes.’ 

‘Actually, you’re  _soaking_. Can we - ‘ 

Mycroft began to sit up, and Greg caught his cheek, turning Mycroft to face him and kissing him soundly. They drew apart and Mycroft smiled at him, that vulnerable, open, almost shy one that Greg fucking  _loved_.  

‘Hello.’ 

Greg grinned back. ‘Hello you.’ He reached out and brushed the corner of the towel  over Mycroft’s face. Mycroft dipped his head, ‘I can’t imagine how awful I must look- '  

Greg said, ‘Nope, still gorgeous.’ 

Mycroft’s gaze had roamed downwards, and he said almost absently as his hand drifted lightly against Greg’s abs, ‘Gregory, you’ve been hiding an _exceptionally_  fine torso under all that cotton and polyester. How - terribly distracting.’  

Greg felt himself actually blush. ‘Um...thanks. Not as fine as it used to be, but I guess it’s okay. You know,’ he added somewhat archly, ‘ _for my age_.’ 

Mycroft groaned and dropped his head. ‘Please, Gregory, _please_ don’t ever repeat anything I said then.’  

‘Okay, I’m sorry. Couldn’t resist.’ 

‘You must know that was a particularly fallacious comment.’ Mycroft’s gaze roamed Greg hungrily. ‘Especially in light of my long-standing opinion that you are the most attractive individual I have ever laid eyes on.’ 

Greg said, embarrassed, ‘You don’t have to - ‘ 

‘Exaggerate? I assure you; I am not.’ Mycroft sighed. ‘You cannot know how often I have been inappropriately distracted in important meetings by ruminating on your attractiveness.’ 

Greg grinned. ‘Really?’ He nudged Mycroft. ‘What meetings?’ 

Mycroft made an embarrassed sound, and Greg nudged him again. Mycroft said reluctantly, ‘That meeting you attended earlier last week - ‘ 

Greg said in a tone of mock severity, ‘That one full of absurdly important people and issues vital to the interests of the nation?’ 

‘You were _in the room_ , Gregory. And so terribly  _attentive._  I am not made of stone.’  

Greg grinned. ‘Any others?’  

There was another reluctant pause, then Mycroft muttered quickly, ‘The Prime Minister can be quite _extraordinarily_ tedious at times.’ 

Greg laughed in delight. Mycroft laid a possessive hand over Greg’s bare skin, and made a sound that was almost a sigh of satisfaction. Then a frown creased his forehead and Greg said, ‘Hey -’ he smoothed a finger across the line that had appeared, ‘what’s that?’ 

Mycroft said, hesitantly, some of the distress back in his tone, ‘I will be – I  _am_  – bad at this.’ 

Greg said, ‘Actually, last time was pretty awesome: I thought you were incredible. Oh, wait, you didn’t mean - ‘ 

Mycroft almost smiled. ‘No, I didn’t mean that, as well you knew.’ He frowned again. ‘Gregory, I am a –  _challenging_ person to form a relationship with. I am extremely busy. My job is stressful. I am no doubt set in my ways. I’m sure I might be considered ….eccentric. And I am very far from being an expert at what might be termed  _romantic_  relationships. My personal history in this regard is appalling. I can be difficult. I -’ He broke off as Greg began to smile. ‘I fail to see that I have said anything amusing.’ 

Greg said fondly, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just – you’re a  _Holmes._  You know I know all that, right? I mean, you effectively dumped me twice in a week and we weren’t even officially together. I’ve known you for years. I’ve seen you work. None of it matters, love. Just tell me you want me in your life, and we’ll make it work, I promise.’ He pushed some wet hair gently from Mycroft’s forehead. 'And no-one is an expert at this. Everyone is just making it up as they go along. As long as we make it up together, we’ll be fine. I know we will.’ 

Mycroft’s expression had softened. ‘God help me, you’re a hopeless romantic.’ 

Greg smiled back. ‘Oh, you’d better believe it.’ 

Mycroft said uncertainly, ‘Then perhaps we need to do this properly. Would the next step be to arrange a date?’  

Greg leaned back. ‘Why, Mycroft Holmes, are you asking me out?’ 

Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Gregory Lestrade, would you do me the very great kindness of condescending to accompany me to dinner this week? Perhaps Friday, if that’s convenient?’ 

Greg pursed his lips in exaggerated thought, then: ‘No.’ 

Mycroft blinked. ’What?’  

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face, ‘I said no, because this time, we’re going to do this on my terms. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Tomorrow night -’ Mycroft opened his mouth, and Greg said, more firmly,  _‘Tomorrow night_ , because you’re overwrought and tired right now, but I’m not giving you any more time to overthink things, you’ll be back here at six with some excellent wine. I am going to subject you to some of my cooking, which you will pretend to like. We’ll sit on the sofa, and talk some more, maybe watch some rubbish tv -’ 

Mycroft murmured, ‘Netflix and chill -’ 

Greg smiled, ‘That’s the idea. Then, if you’re in the mood, I’m going to take you to the bedroom, where I would like to spend some considerable time getting you out of one of those incredible suits of yours. It’s something I’ve been dreaming about for a while, and I’d really like to savour the moment.’  

Mycroft blinked. Greg continued, ‘And then I might spend a bit more time working out the best way to demonstrate my depth of affection on that gorgeous body of yours.’ 

Mycroft swallowed.  

‘And ideally, you’ll need to tell Anthea to clear your schedule for the next morning too, because I’d like to wake up with you still next to me.’ 

He eyed Mycroft with mock severity. ‘Those are my terms, Mr Holmes, what do you say?’ 

Mycroft said, a little faintly, ‘I accept.’ 

Greg grinned, and pulled Mycroft close again. ‘Wow, I thought you you’d be a much tougher negotiator than that.’  

Mycroft said, ‘I find you - extraordinarily persuasive. Do you find this approach works with miscreants too? Do you simply talk to them with that tone, and those eyes, and ask them to admit their crimes? Honestly, your confession rate must be astonishing.’ 

Greg laughed. ‘That tone and those eyes are just yours. And now,’ he stood, and pulled Mycroft with him, ’Call your car. I’m sending you home. Have a warm bath, an early night, don’t work too hard tomorrow, and come back to me.’ 

Mycroft made no attempt to move from his place, still wrapped against Greg’s chest. Standing had brought even more of his wet coat in contact with Greg, but Greg hadn’t released his hold, and he made no attempt to break free.  

Greg said, and his breath was warm against Mycroft's cheek, ‘Yep, that’s what you should do. Any second now. Off you go.’ 

Mycroft hummed agreement, then adjusted his embrace to tuck as much of Greg as possible inside his coat, protecting him from the worst of the damp. Greg gave a quiet hum of satisfaction, pulling Mycroft even closer.  

Some time went by, then Mycroft murmured, ‘I’m not – very tired.’ 

‘Hmm?’ 

‘I was just -  I mean, obviously, the choice is yours, and only if you’re not busy,’ Mycroft's quiet voice took on a hopeful tone, ‘but perhaps, those things you were talking about, we could do – now?’   

Greg leaned back to take in Mycroft’s face. ‘Right now?’ 

Mycroft nodded, and gestured to the television, ‘We would have to do without the wine, but you have Netflix and I can be – chill.’  

Greg smothered a laugh. ‘Love, that is the least convincing thing you’ve said tonight.’ 

Mycroft said with dignity, ‘I am _immensely_ chill.’  

‘Oh God, you’re really not. And you’re a terrible liar too, because you’re exhausted.’ 

‘I am a  _excellent_ liar. Generally.' Mycroft looked genuinely affronted. 

‘I’ve actually no doubt of that My, but right now you couldn’t lie your way out of a paper bag.’ 

There was a sniff, then a frown, ‘This ‘ _My’_?’  

Greg said lightly, ‘No good? What about Myke? Mykie?’ 

Mycroft tried and failed to suppress a look of horror. ‘If you  _really_ must, My is - barely preferable.’  

‘I’ll try and stick to Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft said, with the air of someone coming to a realisation,  _'_ Actually, I - find I don't mind so much, when it comes from you. But I discourage the use of diminutives from others, so -’ 

‘My lips are sealed.’  

‘Thank you.’ Mycroft paused, then said uncertainly, 'Would you – like me to go?’ 

Greg stroked a hand gently down Mycroft’s face. ‘You don’t have to. But if you stay, I’m putting you to bed. And I’d be prepared to bet my bed is less comfortable than yours.’  

Mycroft turned his face to press his lips to Greg’s hand as it passed. ‘But will it have you in it?’ 

Greg smiled. ‘Well, I’m a chivalrous host, so usually I’d give my guest the bed and sleep on the couch, but someone made my couch all wet.’  

‘How inconsiderate. Now you’ll  _have_ to sleep in the bed.’ 

‘But if I do,’ Greg said with mock severity, ‘there will be absolutely no funny business, Mr Holmes,  _none._  You need to sleep.’ 

Mycroft blinked. ‘I thought you wanted to get me out of my suit.’ 

Greg let a slow smile spread over his face. ‘Oh, I do. I  _really_ do. But not this suit. A dry one. I’ll need to  _peel_ you out of this one. Which we should do, by the way, if you’re staying, before you freeze to death.’  

‘I may stay then?’  

Greg said fervently, ‘Dear God, Mycroft, you never need to ask.’ He drew Mycroft’s face to him and kissed him soundly.  

When he drew back, Mycroft was smiling. ‘What happened to ‘no funny business’?  

‘You’re _in the room_ , My. I’m not made of stone.’ Mycroft huffed a laugh and Greg pulled away with some reluctance.  

‘Right. Coat off. I’m going to see if I’ve got anything you can sleep in.’  

* 

Two hours later, and Greg was sitting at the edge of his bed, watching Mycroft sleep. He needed to sleep himself, but he was currently weighing that against the pleasure of savouring the sight of Mycroft Holmes, in his bed, wearing his old London marathon t-shirt. (‘I can never wear this in public, people would infer a level of athletic ability, and I would emphatically disappoint.’) He had dug out some old sweat pants and the t-shirt, which had been too small for some years, and although the t-shirt made Mycroft look like he was wearing his Dad’s clothes, they were good enough to sleep in. He had bundled Mycroft off to the bathroom with the clothes, a clean towel, and instructions to dry off  _properly_ , a comment Mycroft had greeted with an acerbic, ‘Yes, mother’.  

He had been momentarily tempted to make good on his promise to peel Mycroft out of his suit, but wasn’t confident enough in his own ability to display appropriate restraint when confronted with a naked Mycroft, so had settled for shooing him to the bathroom, quickly changing the bed, then gathering the wet clothes through the door and putting them on the radiator. He had also been forced to revise his opinion that Mycroft in one of his suits was the most attractive sight Greg had ever seen. Apparently, the sight of Mycroft barefoot, in Greg’s too-short sweat pants, and over large t-shirt, with tired eyes, and rumpled hair, did similar things to Greg’s insides, with the addition of a tug at his heart, that said hopefully, and repeatedly,  _mine._   

Brief bedroom conversation had elicited the news that Mycroft hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, so Greg had told him to stay put whilst he prepared food. (‘Something light, you’ll be asleep in a minute. Toast? A sandwich?’ ‘Gregory, this is absurd, I cannot eat in  _bed_ , we are not  _savages_.’ ‘Put one foot out of that bed, Mycroft Holmes, and I’m sending you home, t-shirt or no.’)  

Greg’s food preparation had taken less than ten minutes, but even so, he’d returned to the sight of Mycroft curled on his side,  already asleep. Smiling to himself, Greg had returned to the kitchen, put the food in the fridge, and got himself ready for bed. He wondered momentarily if he should contact Anthea, then decided there was precisely zero chance that she didn’t already know where Mycroft was, and who he was with.  

He sat on the side of his bed, watching the sleeping Mycroft with affection. He considered briefly sleeping on the couch after all, to make absolutely sure that Mycroft slept, then dismissed the thought because the couch was still wet, and Mycroft had seemed to like the idea of sharing a bed with Greg, even if sex was off the table. He checked the alarm on his phone before gently moving the duvet aside and sliding in next to Mycroft as unobtrusively as possible.  

He had thought he would lie awake for a while, but sleep claimed him quickly. 

* 

* 

* 

* 

* 

He awoke in the early hours, gasping for breath. His throat felt like it was on fire. Reality hit fast. He’d just been punched in the neck. He bolted upright, one hand defensively to his throat as the other reached for a weapon. In the dim light of the streetlight through the curtains, horrified eyes stared at him from across the bed. Greg’s heartrate accelerated even further before he recognised them. And realised that they were alone.  

‘Mycroft?’ His voice was a croak. ‘You okay?’ His breathing was rasping, but starting to level out.  

Mycroft blinked a few times, and the alarm vanished to be replaced with concern.  _‘Gregory_?’ Realisation dawned, and the horrified look returned. ‘Oh  _god_  - ’ He crawled forward across the bed and  gently  took  Lestrade’s hand away from his throat. ‘Oh   _Greg._  That will bruise, I am so –. Let me get you - ‘ He went to move, but Greg seized his wrist, croaked, ‘It’s fine, Mycroft, it’s okay.’  

‘It isn’t, I’m sorry, I must have thought - ‘ He broke off. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid my subconscious assumed another person in my bedroom would have nefarious intent.’  

Greg said lightly, ‘Not so much with the bed-sharing lately, huh?’  

Mycroft seemed to huddle into himself. He said, ‘It has been a long time.’  

Greg nodded. He said carefully, ‘Do you want me to -?’ He gestured with his head towards the living room, then winced.  

A look of such concentrated misery flitted across Mycroft’s face, that Greg said quickly, 'Or not, I’ll just stay here.’  

‘If you don’t mind. I’m very sorry to have woken you.’ 

‘I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had better wake ups, but you’re here, so it’s still good.’ He cleared his throat a few times. ‘There we go. Getting better already.’  

Mycroft still looked stricken. Greg said, ‘Hey, it's okay. Probably my fault. I’m a bit of a sleep cuddler. Must’ve felt like you were being smothered.’ He tried to laugh, but it hurt, so he stopped. 

Mycroft gave him a weak smile. Greg coughed again, then said, ‘Okay. Fun’s over. Back to sleep for you.’  

Mycroft still looked unhappy, but lay down again, as far away as he could go without actually falling out of the bed, and stared despondently at Greg’s throat.  

Greg settled down, then said, ‘My, do something for me?’ Mycroft’s eyes flicked to his face. He lifted his arm, creating an inviting space between his mattress, the duvet, and his chest, and said, ‘C‘mere.’  

Mycroft shuffled across, murmured, ‘You may be taking your life in your hands.’  

Greg smiled as he pulled him close. ‘Risk I’m willing to take.’ 

They lay in silence as some of the tension began to drain from Mycroft’s body.  

Greg said, ‘If I tell you something, will you promise not to go all cold diplomat?’ 

Mycroft murmured tiredly, ‘I am not capable of professionalism at this moment. And how could I possibly be  _cold_ with you now?’ 

‘Not me.’ 

Mycroft thought for a second. ‘Ah. Anthea.’ 

‘She told me you had a relationship years ago, and that it ended – badly. I just wanted you to know - that won’t happen. Not with me.’ Greg said fervently, ‘Whatever happens between us, I’d never hurt you like that. Never.’  

Mycroft said, very quietly, ‘What did Anthea tell you?’ 

‘Promise you aren’t mad at her.’ 

‘I am not.’ 

Greg quietly relayed the story that Anthea had told him, wishing all the time he could see Mycroft's face, but it remained firmly against his shoulder. Then added, ‘and she said she’d like to hunt the fucker down. A sentiment I wholeheartedly agreed with.’  

Mycroft said, in a subdued tone, ‘I fear for anyone incurring the combined righteous wrath of Gregory and Anthea.’ He fell silent.  

Greg said, ‘You’re not – upset that she told me?’  

Mycroft was quiet, then, ‘No. Whilst I might rather she had not, I understand her motive for doing so, in the circumstances.’  

After a moment, Greg said, ‘You’re quiet though.’  

Mycroft drew a slow breath and said, ‘The story I told Anthea was not wholly accurate. I  allowed her to make inferences that I knew to be untrue.’  

Greg made to draw back, to see Mycroft’s face, but Mycroft clung to him so tightly that his face remained hidden against Greg’s shoulder. Greg stopped, then shifted instead so that even more of Mycroft was pressed against him. 

Mycroft said, and his voice sounded strangely thick, ‘I know that you place a high premium on honesty. I could tell you – at least some of the truth. If that would be acceptable.’  

Greg had the strong feeling that Mycroft was trying to keep his voice neutral. The fact that he was failing so entirely was a little chilling. He said gently, ‘I’d like that.’ 

On instinct, he pulled Mycroft closer and shifted himself so that he was shielding Mycroft from the rest of the room and Mycroft’s head was tucked in the gap between Greg’s neck and shoulder. Mycroft’s voice, when it came, was muffled and Greg could feel the warmth of his breath on his skin. 

‘We met at university. He was incredibly charming. Confident. Witty. Popular. I was – none of those things. And entirely dazzled by his inexplicable interest in me. In retrospect I was ideal for him. Lacking closeness with friends or family. Intelligent but deeply insecure. Frightened of my own sexuality. And almost painfully naive. He could not have designed a more perfectly exploitable partner.  

‘He was not himself unintelligent. He was certainly clever enough to recognise someone who could be manipulated to his advantage. And this he proceeded to do. For years. I am not proud of my behaviour at that time but I believed that it was necessary to remain - loved.’ He added, and the sadness in his voice made Greg ‘s chest hurt. ‘He was my first – everything.’ 

 ‘After graduation we did buy a house together, and go into business, as I told Anthea. What I omitted to tell her was that we were also -' Mycroft hesitated, then continued quickly, ‘- recruited by the security services.’ 

Mycroft drew an uneven breath then continued, ‘The betrayal I described to her did happen. But I wasn’t left in a luxurious country hotel on our anniversary. I was left in a supposed safe house, deep in hostile territory, the location of which was then mysteriously revealed to enemy combatants.  

‘He didn’t get our house and business because I was naive. He got them because I was reported captured and killed. After which my existence was disavowed.  

‘And I knew. All the time I was there. In that - darkness. There was no other way they could have known my location. None. I tried to invent one. I tried –' his breath hitched slightly '- very hard. I wanted to believe that I was missed. That someone cared. But I knew. I think, in the end, that was the worst thing.’ 

Greg became aware that his grip on Mycroft had tightened to what must have been an uncomfortable degree. He forced himself to relax and loosen his hold.  

Mycroft said, so quietly Greg almost missed it, ‘Please don’t let go.’ 

Greg gathered Mycroft against him so tightly his shoulders began to ache. He kissed Mycroft's temple and murmured, ‘Never, Iove. I promise. I’ll keep you safe.’  

They lay in silence until Mycroft said thickly, ‘I have never in life felt safer than I do now. Thank you.’  

Greg didn’t trust himself to do more than mutter, ‘Always’ and continue to hold Mycroft close. When Mycroft didn’t continue straight away, Greg felt his anxiety levels kick up. He said, ‘My, I – I don’t want you to tell me anything that will – ,’ He stopped, as the right words didn’t come. ‘Just - is there anything I need to - , I mean – were you okay, afterwards? Did someone take care of you?’ 

Mycroft pressed his face into Greg’s shoulder and murmured, ‘ _Gregory_ ,’ in such a choked voice that Greg’s throat tightened in sympathy.  

Mycroft took a steadying breath, then said quietly, ‘Whatever horrors you are imagining, love, please stop. I was valuable to them, as a potential bargaining tool. I was not - excessively mistreated.’ 

Greg said brokenly, ‘Christ, My.’ 

Mycroft tightened his grip on Greg, and said quickly, in a voice that was striving to be his diplomat voice, ‘The hardest thing was the darkness. I was kept in a cellar without windows and my sense of time became – unmoored. I had no idea how long I was there. The rest of the world simply ceased to exist. I was beaten. Twice. For entertainment, more than anything, I think. There was certainly no concerted attempt made to extract information. In that respect I was - fortunate.’  

Greg bit his lip, hard, and concentrated on remembering to breathe, and not letting go of Mycroft, whose slim form had begun to tremble. At this proximity he could feel Mycroft’s heartbeat and he rubbed Mycroft’s back until he felt it slow, and Mycroft stilled.  

Eventually, Mycroft said, ‘To answer your earlier question, I was offered counselling. I declined.’  

Greg laid his head against Mycroft’s, squeezing his eyes shut against the image of a younger, terrified Mycroft, alone in the dark. ‘I wish I’d been there.’ 

Mycroft’s arms tightened around him.  

Greg said, ‘I’m here now. And I’m not letting you get away again.’ 

After a while Mycroft stirred, and said in a tone slightly closer to his usual, ‘At this point I would like to relate a tale of derring-do involving my unlikely escape, but alas reality is a little more mundane. As it transpired, I owed my ultimate freedom to my brother.’ 

Greg said, startled, ‘Sherlock?’ 

‘He is wilfully ignorant of much of this and I would like to keep it that way, Gregory, if we may.’ 

‘Whatever you want, love.’ 

Mycroft said, ‘When members of the security services die in the line of duty, a cover story is often invented to convince grieving relatives of the tragic yet ultimately mundane nature of their demise.

'Unfortunately for the inventors of the cover story in my case, my parents were out of the country, so the person they had to convince was Sherlock.’  

Greg said slowly, ‘They tried to sell  _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ a bullshit story about his brother's death with fabricated evidence and no witnesses?’  

‘They did, yes.’  

‘Christ. I almost wish I’d been a fly on the wall. It’d have been good to see someone else getting it in the neck for a change.’ 

‘In their defence, Sherlock was barely out of his teens and had not yet fully developed the talents that would later bring him national recognition.’ 

‘I’m guessing that didn’t stop him ripping their story apart for a single second.’ 

‘It did not. I may well owe my life to my brother's bloody minded intransigence in the face of untruth. He demolished their cover story so entirely they were obliged to invent a new one. Which he also rubbished. Eventually they were forced to reveal what they believed to be the truth.’ 

‘Which he also thought was bullshit.’ 

‘Quite. Fortunately for me, his objections raised enough doubt in the original story that questions were asked. An exploratory mission was approved. I was back in London less than two weeks later.’  

Greg said fervently, ‘Thank God for Sherlock. And file that under phrases I don't often use.’ 

Mycroft's breath huffed in an almost laugh.  

Greg said slowly, ‘If it was Sherlock that blew their cover story, why doesn’t he know what happened?’  

Mycroft stirred against him, and sighed. ‘Before I left England, Sherlock and I had argued. Not a rare occurrence in itself, but more  _comprehensively_ than usual. He had abandoned yet another university course. I was insistent that he should complete it, and seek gainful employment. He resented my interference. When he was approached by strangers whom he easily deduced to be members of the security services, with an obviously fallacious story of my demise, he assumed it was an attempt by me to manipulate him, either into joining them, or completing his course. So obviously he did neither, but was unable to resist the temptation to prove his cleverness by debunking their story. Three times. When I came home I avoided him for a sufficient length of time that he would be unable to deduce anything that had happened. As we habitually went significant lengths of time without speaking, he didn’t notice anything unusual.’ 

Greg nodded, took a breath, and let it out slowly. ‘Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to.’ 

Mycroft said, against his shoulder, ‘Thank you for  - being someone I could tell.'

Behind the curtains the dim light of the street lamp was beginning to be joined by another, more natural light. Greg laid a kiss on Mycroft’s head. ‘Okay. Back to sleep now, handsome. Work tomorrow.’ 

As the light slowly increased, Mycroft’s grip on Greg lessened, and his breathing began to even out. Greg watched the shadows move across the ceiling, and kept his arms around Mycroft until the room was fully light.  

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an early morning conversation, Mycroft describes to Greg one of his experiences in the security services.


End file.
